


Adagio

by Feyland



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Other, Past Drug Addiction, Safer Sex, Scars, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-05-13 02:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14740292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/pseuds/Feyland
Summary: "The circus collects the outsiders like a flame tempts moths."Montparnasse and Éponine run away to join the circus, trying to escape all that they've left behind. They are not the only ones running.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> adagio  
> [uh-dah-joh, -zhee-oh]  
> Dance.  
> a. a sequence of well-controlled, graceful movements performed as a display of skill.  
> b. a duet or trio emphasizing difficult technical feats.  
> c. a love-duet sequence in a pas de deux.
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for description of injuries and implied abuse

“I don’t know about this,” Montparnasse muttered as they set foot onto the worn-down grass of the field.

“Unless you have a better idea, shut up,” Éponine said fiercely, the anxiety under her words not lost to Montparnasse. He glanced her way, taking in the the tightness of her jaw, and the whiteness of her knuckles where she clutched the strap of her backpack. Her hair was swept forward, covering part of her face in a way that would usually have her pushing it back, annoyed. She noticed him watching as she ran her fingers through it again, hiding her eye, and flipped him off. Comforting, he supposed. If his home was wherever he felt safe returning to, then home was Éponine's dry impatience. 

Familiarity vanished completely as they stepped into the carnival grounds. Bright colours and noise overwhelmed Montparnasse. The air felt sticky, and warmer than beyond the border of colourful flags. The temperature had dropped overnight, offering a taste of the edge of the autumn approaching. The day was overcast, and a wind wound its way through patterned canvas and gaudy food and game stands. Still, the space was busy, full of people who had put off attending until the last night of the circus’s performance run. Smells of burnt sugar and popcorn mingled with sawdust and sweat, the air tinged with excitement and anticipation. 

“Alright, what now?” Montparnasse said, pulling on a mask of scepticism and boredom, hoping he was better than Éponine at keeping his feelings off his face. 

“We should…find someone who works here, I guess,” she said, chewing on her thumb nail as she glanced around. 

Montparnasse supposed there were people working inside the food trucks and game booths, but he scanned the grounds too, if only to avoid the obnoxious, bubbly music blaring from a speaker in every stand. He spotted a flash of the circus’s logo, a French flag folded into a pinwheel shape, on the back of a t-shirt, and watched the wearer as he awkwardly made his way through the crowd in roughly their direction. Éponine had followed Montparnasse’s gaze, but drew back instead, nerves washing over her expression. 

Montparnasse sighed and stepped forward.

“Excuse me,” he said, putting on a charming smile as the boy’s attention shot up to him in surprise. “Is there a manager of some kind I could speak to, please?” 

“Uh,” said the boy, and Montparnasse couldn’t help but picture a cornered deer ready to bolt. “Yes? I mean, probably? If I can find him. Um. Wait here maybe? I’ll just…” He took a step back, before turning and darting towards a line of trailers to one side of the midway. 

“What did you do to him?” said Éponine, coming up beside him.

“Nothing! Kid’s jumpy as hell.”

“He was sort of cute,” she mused, looking up at Montparnasse when he scoffed. “What?”

“He looks like Bambi.”

“He looks nice!” 

Montparnasse rolled his eyes. “You have the weirdest taste.” He ignored the rude hand gesture she made in response, focusing instead on the trailers where the employee had reappeared with another man. Bambi gestured in their direction, and the man started over. He wore the same branded shirt, but also carried himself with a taller degree of confidence that made Montparnasse straighten a little. 

“Hi there, folks,” the man said as he neared them, his tone the perfect customer service blend of pleasant and impersonal that made Montparnasse’s hair stand on end. “My name is Combeferre and I’m the circus manager. What can I help you with?”

“We’re looking for jobs,” Éponine said bluntly, and Montparnasse glanced her way. She had folded her arms over her chest, the blend of distrust and accusation in her voice giving away her desperation, if only to Montparnasse’s ears. 

“Oh.” Combeferre blinked. “Well, generally we always do try to offer temporary job opportunities to the people in each town we visit, but since today is our last performance here, we unfortunately aren’t really looking to fill any positions.”

“We don’t want temporary work,” Montparnasse replied smoothly. “We are looking for opportunities outside of the city. We both have significant experience in customer service.” That was a lie, at least on his part, but he had a list of false references set up to swear up and down he had been excellent at whatever type job he was bullshitting his way into. 

“I’m not sure we have a place for you,” Combeferre said, looking uncomfortable. “There’s a lot of paperwork, and a pretty steep learning curve. We find a lot of folks aren’t quite compatible with a touring style of living and working, and we’ve had a few people leave us early on to stay in one place.”

Montparnasse clenched his teeth. There was a lot he wanted to say to that, but nothing seemed appropriate to say to someone he was trying to convince to hire him. He looked at Éponine, letting the frustration seep out of his cultivated expression.

“Look,” she said, and looked up, letting the hair fall away from her face. Montparnasse watched Combeferre’s reaction closely. His mouth opened a little in surprise, and tension creased his forehead, furrowing his brow as he took in Eponine’s face. Her right eye was still puffy, broken blood vessels adding a sickening tinge to the whites, but most of the initial swelling had gone down. The bruise that remained, though, was still a dark, mottled purple, and stretched down over her cheekbone. Below,a line of stitches awkwardly dipped into the crease of her nostril, looking like insect wings covering the half-inch-long cut. 

“I heard your company’s whole _thing_ is to bring positive opportunities to the communities you visit, along with putting on a show. We’re telling you that this community is garbage, and that one way you could create your change or whatever is by helping us get away from here. I’m not shitting you when I say that we have reasons for wanting to leave, and that it’s pretty fucking hard to get out on our own. We’re just looking for some work, and a safe place to live, preferably as far away from here as possible.”

To his credit, Combeferre didn’t respond as Montparnasse had expected him to. He didn’t gawk at Eponine and demand an explanation of what had happened. He didn’t tell her that her situation was none of his business and that he was very sorry but now he needed to get back to work. Instead, he pursed his lips slightly for just a moment before speaking, as though letting his plan of action get neatly situated in his head. 

“I will see what I can do. At the very least, I can offer you two work tonight. I could use a hand at concession, and taking tickets at the door. In the meantime, I can go over some paperwork and try to find a more permanent offer for you. After the show tonight, we could sit down and discuss it further. We have a starting rate of €14 an hour for our temporary staff, but that increases for our permanent folks. Does that sound fair to you?”

Eponine was badly concealing the surprise on her face. It was clear she didn’t have much faith in her pity plea, and was caught off-guard by the offer, and the money. Before she could let her trademark distrust rear its head, Montparnasse smoothly transferred attention back to himself as he put out a hand to Combeferre. 

“Very much obliged,” he said, matching Combeferre’s firm grip.“My name is Montparnasse, and my lovely companion is Eponine. I know we are more than willing to prove ourselves assets to you.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Combeferre warmly as he glanced over his shoulder. “Marius!” he called out to Bambi several yards away, startling the young man who hurried over. “If you have a few minutes, would you be able to get Montparnasse here set up at the main tent for ticket collection? Eponine, I believe they might need another set of hands over at concession, if that’s alright with you. I can take you over there now.”

Montparnasse maintained his pleasant expression until Combeferre had started away with Eponine, who threw back one last uneasy look. As he turned expectantly toward Bambi— Marius, he let the stale smile fall back to something neutral. 

“Ah, well, I’m not sure people are really going to be heading into the tent so early, but I can show you, ah, what to do? I guess?” Marius looked uncertain, as if he wasn’t quite sure who was meant to be training whom. 

“Lead the way,” said Montparnasse cooly. He followed Marius as they headed in the direction of the massive tent towering over the booths and games set up around it. The monstrosity, striped in blue, white, and red, piped out music from hidden speakers, drawing the ear and eye in a game of hypnosis. 

Montparnasse barely listened as Marius went through the intricacies of tearing pieces of paper in half, trying to slow his thoughts while keeping his eyes on the meandering crowd, watching for any unwanted familiar faces. 

It was nearly an hour between the time Marius finally excused himself for whatever pre-show duties needed his attention, and when the first patrons began to trickle into the big top. In that time, Montparnasse might have gone mad with boredom had he not the waves of panic overtaking his mental barriers. He obsessively went over the plan in his head in an attempt to quell the obtrusive thoughts. Wherever the circus went next, he and Eponine would go. Once they were far enough away, once they had some money, once they could afford to send some of it to Gavroche for a bus ticket…

The details did not stop whirring in his head until the line of excited audience members had dwindled to a few late stragglers, and the sun had begun to paint the sky over the midway a pale pink. The constant, etherial music around him finally came to an end, leading the audience into the silence of anticipation. Montparnasse glanced around at the the empty grounds. He could take the tickets of any latecomers from inside the tent, he supposed. Better to have a distraction.

He entered just as the lights inside began to dim, and Montparnasse slipped in between the raised seating platforms to face the darkened centre ring. A faint beat began to sound, growing louder with each echo.

The show began. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this idea kicking around for a little while. Focused on Jehanparnasse as usual, but now here to feature more of Les Amis and Co.
> 
> Let me know what you think! I'm feyland on tumblr too, so feel free to hit me up there too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for clowns (though I should warn that clowns will be popping up throughout this fic if that's a thing you'd rather avoid).

 

The drum gave way to an assault on the senses. Music rose and crashed, lights moving too brightly and too quickly to see anything other than warped colours and shapes, half-obscured by shadows. It was as though the display had sucked the very air out of the lungs of the audience, as though to make room inside the chest cavity for more of the frenzy.

The music reached a crescendo and a cymbal crashed, killing all light and sound save the four white spotlights directed upwards, meeting and crossing on a lone figure high above the heads of the audience. The man seemed to hang, free-floating and radiant in the bright light, though Montparnasse could see the faint line of thin wire on which he stood. His red tailcoat, sharp black trousers, and a tall top hat painted him as the stereotype of a ringmaster, but something about the tension in his posture made him look dangerous as he took a moment to cast a look out over the silent crowd. Slowly, he uncurled his hands at his sides, and then with a quick flourish, stretched them out as the world erupted around him. 

An explosion of gold sparks came from behind him, arching like two angel wings before showering down towards the ground, accompanied by the burst of music, breaking like a wave over the delighted crowd. The man on the high wire made a sweeping gesture, and pointed down, as though bestowing his heavenly gift on the world below. From his perch, surrounded by a waterfall of golden fire, the man was beautiful and terrible. His blonde hair curled out from under his hat like a gleaming halo, his coat tails flowing as he whipped around, sending sparks in every direction. He made a gesture as though he were trying to conjure something, hands outstretched in divine concentration. In his hands, an orb of light began to glow, until it had all but consumed him, and he cast it down, where it landed with great fanfare…around a surprised and confused looking clown.

 

He blinked in the sudden spotlight, leaning on the old broom in his hands. Patched overalls and unkempt dark hair gave him the general air of down-on-his-luck, intensified by the overdrawn frown painted onto his face in thick black and white makeup. High above him, the man on the high wire looked equally surprised as he considered the drab figure on the ground. Then he shrugged and raised his arms again, cueing a round of fanfare that brought the clown’s attention up. The man in red waved down, and the clown looked around for another person more likely to have caught the attention of the glowing, golden-haired figure balanced above him. When no one else appeared in his own pool of light, the clown looked up again, pointing towards himself - _Me?_

The man above him gestured impatiently, indicating for the clown to wait a moment, and then tipped backwards off the wire and disappearing into the dark to a chorus of gasps. A second later, another fountain of sparks shot up as the man in red appeared in a spotlight, on a platform a few metres away from the clown, who watched him in the same open-mouthed awe shared by the rest of the audience.

 

The storyline of the show, from what Montparnasse could tell, followed the man in red - the ringmaster - attempting to make the clown into a star, introducing him to all kinds of incredible feats, as though trying to spark something he would grab hold of. 

Montparnasse watched the clown stumble through the tricks he was taught. He dropped the balls he attempted to juggle, even as the ringmaster demonstrated his own skill with flaming pins. He failed dramatically to keep his balance atop a massive ball, making the ringmaster dive out of the way when he went flying off, landing in a controlled tumble that hinted at the performer’s skill hidden under a layer of staged ineptitude. 

Soon, the ringmaster grew frustrated at the lack of success, calling upon the aide of the rest of the circus performers to join in his cause. The show unfolded with undeniably incredible performances freckled with humour. A trapeze artist wearing far too many sequins gave a breathtaking solo performance before attempting to incorporate the clown into his act. The ridiculousness of the clown flailing through the air, clinging on for dear life as his partner kept them aloft while hanging upside down from his knees, had Montparnasse smirking despite himself, as the audience roared around him. 

Back on the ground, the clown had only time steady his shaking knees before a massive man entered, carrying absurdly cartoonish, oversized weights. The two carried out a see-saw of motion, with the giant demonstrating his effortless strength before passing the weight to the clown to collapse under. Montparnasse figured the weights were styrofoam props based on the way the man tossed and caught them with ease, and that the clown was hamming up the exertion involved. That is, until the man’s strength was undeniably demonstrated when he picked up the ringmaster on one arm, and the clown on the other, teetering them up and down like a giant scale.

Movement across the ring distracted Montparnasse, and he watched as a chocolate-coloured horse was lead into the tent by none other than Bambi — that is, Marius. The horse wore ribbons woven though its mane, and its tail, which it swished impatiently as the audience applauded the strong man’s exit. However, instead of mounting the horse himself, Marius held out a hand through the curtain, and escorted in a young woman, similarly decorated in ribbons, her dark hair matching the horse’s coat exactly. Marius bowed, and held the reigns steady as the woman gracefully lifted herself into the colourful saddle. 

It was clear, then, that she had certainly not needed the help. She remained seated for only one lap of the centre ring before her tricks began. The audience had grown silent, as though daring to breathe might spook the horse on which the woman performing handstands, backflips, and impossible balancing acts. She let herself slip over the side, creating a starfish shape with her arms and legs outstretched, a single hand and foot acting as her only tether to the horse, before swinging herself back up. Facing backwards, she raised up on her hands, balancing a moment, before throwing her legs up and over her head, pushing off the horse, and landing with unnatural grace on the ground. 

As the audience exploded, the rider lead the horse towards the centre of the ring, where the clown sat wide-eyed from the display. As they neared, the clown flinched away from the horse, shaking his head wildly as the woman gestured for him to mount. Instead, he pulled from below his platform a hobby-horse with a head made of burlap. Being sure to avoid the real animal that seemed to watch him with amusement, the clown began his own version of the routine, galloping around the ring himself, pausing to perform a shaky cartwheel, or to lay down his mount to balance a moment on the broom handle. The young woman applauded politely while the ringmaster watched with thinly veiled frustration. As the horse and rider exited, the clown sauntered up to the ringmaster, catching a look at his expression. The clown seemed to deflate as the ringmaster gave him a hard look, shaking his head in disappointment, and turning to exit as well. 

Alone in the centre of the ring, the clown looked around before hanging his head in shame, just as more figures began to emerge from within the risers positioned in the centre of the ring. Two other clowns, both sporting frankly garish colours and patterns took to the stage in an apparent attempt to lift the spirit of their companion.

Laughter rolled through the audience, even as Montparnasse’s attention wandered. The acrobatics and impossible feats were unquestionably impressive to him, but slapstick comedy had never been his particular cup of tea. Instead, he studied the crowd, watching the range of reactions and emotions swelling there. Children shrieked in glee, their parents not bothering to shush them, lost in their own amusement. Montparnasse caught wide-eyed anxiety in the mix as well, flickering into what he easily identified as second-hand embarrassment as the clowns fumbled their way through the act. 

He pulled his attention back as the music began to shift, just in time to see the two colourful clowns disappear under a rainbow striped parachute that settled onto the ground with no hint of where they could have gone. As the original clown lifted the edge to peer underneath it, he missed the moment that another piece of fabric tumbled down towards the earth. He jumped, as he straightened, at the column of purple silk hanging inches from his head, and then followed it up to its origin. The lighting shifted as the collective eyes of the audience followed, dimming to a wide spotlight at the person poised above, hanging effortlessly from a single loop of fabric around their wrist. Long red hair fell loosely around them as they seemingly floated up horizontally, shaping the silk around their body like smoke. They hung there a moment, the silk turning gently, before they fell. 

Montparnasse couldn’t help it - he let out an audible gasp with the rest of the audience, his heart feeling like it was dropping with the performer, only to be caught halfway down in the effortless folds of perfect timing. They’re execution of the trick sent the tent into wild applause, drowning out the music for a moment as they stretched out gracefully. Letting one leg reach up and over them, they pulled apart what Montparnasse could see now were two separate silks, hooking one foot into each before leaning back in an upside-down split. 

Montparnasse did not want to blink for fear of missing a second of it. Out of everything he had seen, the silk aerialist had by far managed to most capture his senses. With every movement, they manipulated the silks like fine calligraphy, writing out the secrets to the sublime for all to see. 

The feeling seemed not to have been lost on the clown either, whose eyes swam with tears as he watched the performer. Descending towards the bottom of the silks, they held out a hand to the clown, who kissed it. Instead of climbing the silks with them, though, another piece was lowered - a simple swing of painted rope that rose into the air to follow the aerialist as they continued their performance to a hushed room. 

Vaguely, Montparnasse took in the show’s ending, distracted by the aerialist who never left the stage. The clown’s story seemed to involve bringing all the pieces of the circus together. Performers from throughout the night returned to celebrate the show, and the clown’s role in it. Even the ringmaster returned, surprised and awed by the results. The performance ended with the ringmaster removing his hat, and offering it to the clown, apparently the next leader of the troupe. 

Thunderous applause rang out as the cast took their bows, but Montparnasse found he only had eyes for the redheaded performer, clapping for them alone. 

It was only when they had left the tent with the others that Montparnasse remembered to breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long I spent way too much time watching videos of horse vaulting and aerial silks. 
> 
> 10 points and a ticket to the circus for anyone correctly guessing who is who~


	3. Chapter 3

The air still hung humid outside the tent, as though the wind too had been holding its breath. The last traces of purple sunset were being swallowed by the oncoming night, but the bright bulbs around the midway kept the circus grounds lit, an island in the middle of the dark field. 

Most of the stands were closed, games powered down, windows to food trucks shut. The people leaving the big top chattered with excitement, comparing their favourite parts of the show, making their way beyond the grounds, satisfied with the evening’s entertainment. Montparnasse looked around, and, uncertain of what he was meant to do, leaned up against a post and watched the crowd go by. 

He didn’t wait long. Soon, he spotted Marius, struggling to cross the stream of people coming out of the tent, eventually stumbling free towards Montparnasse. 

“Hi,” he said, a little out of breath. “I’m supposed to bring you to Combeferre’s office?” 

Montparnasse wondered if Marius was asking him, or if everything the young man said ended up sounding uncertain. 

“After you.”

 

They wove through the thinning crowd, past the few booths still open and attracting stragglers. Clangs and whistles from still echoed in the night air, and a few people milled outside a small tent with a sign reading “FORTUNES TOLD - TAROT, PALM-READING, TEA LEAVES, RUNECASTING”. 

“I was able to watch most of the show,” said Montparnasse, casually. “You didn’t tell me you were a performer.”

“Wha-? Oh, no, I’m not,” said Marius, his cheeks colouring. “I just, ah, help with Cosette’s horse. Brush it, help her put the ribbons in. I’m actually-” He looked stricken, and Montparnasse immediately regretted bringing it up. “I’m actually kind of…afraid? Of horses? But Catherine is okay. She hasn’t bitten me, at least. And Cosette loves her so I suppose…” He trailed off, his brow furrowed. Just as well.

Eventually, the booths gave way to plain-looking trailers, and Marius lead Montparnasse up the steps of one, holding the door open for him. Montparnasse stepped inside, ducking under the low doorway. The trailer was small, but it was absolutely packed with stuff. Clothing racks, wigs, hula hoops, juggling pins, sewing kits, first aid kits, makeup kits - things were piled up to the ceiling in some parts, balanced as precariously as some of the performers themselves. A small desk had been placed in the front corner to Montparnasse’s right, boxed in by a helium tank and an enormous beach ball. Despite the surrounding chaos, the desk was very neat, and Combeferre smiled at Montparnasse from behind it. In front of it, Éponine sat on a folding chair, right up against the trailer wall to make room for the empty seat beside her. As Montparnasse squeezed into it, she shot him a look, widening her eyes in the general sense of ‘ _What the fuck’._

“Awesome,” said Combeferre, as they turned their attention back to him. “I just wanted to check in with you folks about this evening. After a cursory experience, are you still interested in joining our team?”

Montparnasse looked sideways at Éponine, who caught his eye and gave a slight nod. 

“I believe so,” said Montparnasse, smoothly. “We would be extremely grateful for the opportunity.”

“Well,” said Combeferre, “I think you two would be a good fit. Our permanent crew is actually pretty small, and we really could use some folks behind the scenes. Everyone does their part, but there’s really only three of us who don’t need rehearsal time at the moment. The job does ideally include some physical work, but we’re also mindful of accommodating any disabilities.”

As he talked, Combeferre pulled out two packets of paper. “I have some contracts here. They’re a little long, and I’m sorry about that, but they do cover a lot of specifics. Things like safety waivers, information on the room and board provided, and health insurance information since it can get a little complicated while travelling. Take all the time you need to read those over, and I can answer any questions you have.”

There was nothing Montparnasse could do other than work his way through the packet. It didn’t matter than he and Éponine planned to split as soon as they were far enough away, with enough money in their pockets. They had a plan, and if it meant filling out eight hundred pages of paperwork, then so be it. The booklet was incredibly detailed, he found, and surprisingly conscious of the safety and wellness of the employee. There was a place to include pronouns, pages detailing worker’s rights, and ethics regarding circus practices. By the time he reached the end, Éponine had already signed her name, and was waiting silently for him to finish. Combeferre flipped through the packets once they were handed back to him, and smiled.

“Excellent,” he said, standing. “I’ll process these tonight, and officially get you started tomorrow. In the meantime, I would love to introduce you to the rest of the cast and crew. You’re, ah, going to be seeing a lot of them.” 

Not exactly keen for more polite introductions and social interaction, Montparnasse made a face at Éponine from behind Combeferre’s back, but followed him out of the trailer. He led them around the big top to another tent partially attached to it. While the larger tent was dark and quiet, the second glowed with light, which spilled out along with voices talking and laughing over muffled music. A post at its entrance bore a sign saying “Circus Staff Only” in curling letters.

“This is sort of a combination backstage, green room, dining room, and meeting space,” explained Combeferre, and he pulled back the entrance flap to let them in. 

The space beyond was eclectic, to say the least. A mismatched array of bean bag chairs and colourful cushions littered the tent, a few threadbare rugs underneath. Tufts of exposed grass popped out of the gaps, and surrounded the legs of multiple clothing racks of garishly designed costumes. A couple of long foldout picnic tables ran down the middle, mostly covered with props, as well as things Montparnasse couldn’t identify, though admittedly, he was more distracted by the centrepiece. In the middle of the nearer table stood one of the performers Montparnasse had seen earlier - the trapeze artist in head-to-toe glitter. He had changed out of his costume, though Montparnasse did not consider it an improvement. Tiny, shiny black hot pants and a cropped tank top left little to the imagination, though Montparnasse couldn’t help but feel a little impressed by the way the man was dancing in the knee-high black boots with heels at least five inches tall. 

“All eyes on me in the centre of the ring JUST LIKE A CIRCUS,” he crowed along with the music coming out of a tinny speaker. 

Around him, people Montparnasse had seen from the show were lounging, some with drinks in hand, and more with looks of amused exasperation. 

“For the love of Christ, Courfeyrac, turn that shit off.” A cushion flew through the air, falling just short of the table. The assailant leaned back against a stack of pillows, rubbing his temples. Montparnasse recognized the clown at the centre of the show’s storyline, though his face had been scrubbed clean of makeup, and he wore flannel instead of sequins. 

“You dare call the work of our lord and saviour Britney Spears “shit” in my presence? Leave Britney alone, Grantaire! You’re lucky she even performed for you bastards.” 

Grantaire reached back for another projectile as Courfeyrac wailed, but Combeferre intervened first, reaching for the speaker and turning the music down to nothing but a low pulse. 

“Ferre, everyone is bullying me tonight,” Courfeyrac pouted as he dropped down to sit at the edge of the table. “Are you going to let them get away with it? In front of your mysterious and beautiful new friends?” 

Montparnasse couldn’t quite find the intent behind the over exaggerated whining, and he bristled a little at the comment. 

Unfazed, Combeferre smiled. “I actually just wanted you all to meet Éponine and Montparnasse. They will be joining our team on a permanent basis, working mostly with Feuilly and Marius in operations and production. I thought tonight would be a good time to get to know them before we pack up tomorrow. Oh, and I wanted to figure out rooming options.”

Awkwardly, Combeferre gestured for Éponine and Montparnasse to sit, and they squished together onto a cushion. 

“We don’t have any kind of enforced gender divisions when it comes to lodgings, but we also understand that, in particular, female-aligned folks might feel a bit more comfortable with other women,” said Combeferre.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” said Éponine quietly, and Montparnasse could feel some tension ease in her. 

“Perfect. There’s space to room with Cosette and Musichetta, I believe,” said Combeferre, gesturing to the woman across the room who smiled brightly their way.

“Especially since Chetta sleeps over with Joly and Bossuet almost every night, and uses our camper just to store her clothes,” she added.

“Of course, you have to share the room with the smell of horse too,” said Courfeyrac. 

“I, for one, would rather smell horse than have to live with your body spray,” said Grantaire, toying with the indignant reaction he received. 

“It’s Versace, you uncultured swine!”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Combeferre pushed on. “I think it makes the most sense to put Montparnasse up with Marius and Enjolras. Would that be okay with all of you guys?”

The prospect of sharing close quarters with Marius suddenly made Montparnasse envious of Éponine’s horse-scented accommodations, and as he followed Combeferre’s line of sight to the blonde ringleader who must have been Enjolras, he could see the mirror of his own politely hidden apprehension. 

“Of course,” he said, though. “I appreciate it.”

“Good,” said Combeferre, and he settled into a fold out chair. “If you don’t mind, it would be great if everyone could introduce themselves. I believe Feuilly and Musichetta are still finishing up a few things right now, but you’ll meet them soon enough.”

They went around in a lopsided circle, everyone offering their names and pronouns. Montparnasse immediately forgot the majority of them, instead working to place the faces around him to the acts he had seen in the show, without distance and makeup to obscure them. He did manage to catch the name of the red-haired aerialist who had caught his eye earlier - Jehan - and he returned the smile they offered him, one that felt a little more authentic than the mask of pleasantry he had been trying to maintain.

The introductions had just finished when the tent flap was pushed open and another woman came through, tugging at the array of scarves around her head an neck. 

“You know, I actually really enjoy getting real deep into a reading, but my last client wanted to talk for so long, and I had to pee so bad I think it was coming out of my pores,” she said as she crossed to room to drop herself between two of the clowns before her eye caught Éponine and Montparnasse. “Ooh, who’s this?”

“Forty Milers,” said Courfeyrac, gleefully. “First o’ Mays. Kids who’ve run away away to join the circus!”

“ _Courfeyrac_ ,” warned Combeferre. To Montparnasse and Éponine, he said, “I’m sorry. Those are some very dated terms based on the assumption that not everyone belongs at a circus, and aren’t able to last more than forty miles. Which isn’t very inclusive or polite.” The last sentence was directed at Courfeyrac, who looked appropriately sheepish. 

Montparnasse said nothing, keeping anything off his face that suggested the plan he and Éponine had to abandon ship as soon as they considered themselves far enough away from their pasts.

“Well. I’m Musichetta,” said the woman. “And I would like to invite you to my elite squad tasked with wrangling this lot.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Not everyone wears the makeup, but trust me, they’re all clowns.”

“I actually get to have a roommate again, Chetta,” Cosette teased. “Éponine is going to fill the void you left behind.”

“Are you?” said Musichetta to Éponine, delight glittering across her face. “Well that’s worthy of a homecoming.” She got to her feet again, and leaned down to lay a deep kiss on both of the clowns at her side. “Don’t wait up for me, boys. Girls Night is the holiest of traditions.” She crossed the room and put out a hand to Éponine, who took it and stood. “Come on, lets get you settled in. Cosette?” 

Éponine’s smile was small, but authentic as she gave Montparnasse a little shrug, before following the other women out the tent. 

“It’s probably best if we follow their example,” said Combeferre. “We’re striking everything as soon as the sun is up. I want to be on the road by nine. 

A few people groaned. “But moooooom,” said Courfeyrac, draping himself over Combeferre’s shoulders.

“Mom? I thought he was Daddy,” someone said, and that was Montparnasse’s cue to go. He quickly got to his feet, meeting Marius’s eye. 

“I’ll show you where to go,” said Marius, his cheeks pink, and it seemed like he too was ready to leave the conversation. 

Montparnasse didn’t bother with the pleasantries of goodnights, and followed Marius out of the tent into the warm night. Soon, he thought, every shadow wouldn’t seem like a threat. Soon he would be packed up with the tents and game booths, leaving this town behind. 

Soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for falling off the face of the earth. Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth for some reason, where I was always thinking about it but never writing it. Basically I've just had Circus by Britney Spears stuck in my head for two months?? 
> 
> Anyway. Leave me a comment or hit me up on tumblr @ feyland if you want!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for scars (self inflicted and not), talk to abuse & child abuse, recreational marijuana use

Montparnasse waited until the breathing around him had slowed and deepened with sleep before quietly slipping out of bed. Across from his bunk, Marius had disappeared into a mound of blankets. To the back of the trailer, light snores came from behind the privacy curtain Enjolras had closed after a strained  _ goodnight _ . As he silently pulled on his boots, Montparnasse considered the black backpack he had shoved into a small cupboard Marius had offered him. The urge to take the bag with him weighed heavy with the instinct to keep close the last of what he owned. Instead, he slipped out of the trailer unencumbered, putting his trust in the small lockbox at the bottom of the bag. 

 

The air had cooled dramatically, the heavy summer giving way to fall’s influence. Montparnasse walked slowly through the dark grass around the row of trailers housing the sleeping circus members. It was habit that had pulled Montparnasse from his bed, the promise of a quiet night calling to him like a lover. 

He paused a moment by the trailer Marius had pointed out as the home of Cosette, Musichetta, and now,  É ponine. He wasn’t surprised not to see her outside, smoking a cigarette and waiting for him, but the image made him realize he had been hoping for her company. But maybe it was for the best, if she was comfortable enough to fall into vulnerable sleep here, and didn’t share the disquiet that had sent him out into the company of crickets and moonlight. 

And music. 

It was so low that Montparnasse first mistook it for the hum of a generator. As he walked, though, he could hear the shifting tones emerging from just beyond the trailers. He silently turned the corner, following the sound, instead of running from it as he was want to do from noises in the night. 

Illuminated by a string of lights running around the edge of a makeshift tent, the red-headed aerialist reclined on an oversized cushion. Their eyes were closed, and their hand moved gently through the air in time with the soft, ethereal music, conducting with a lit joint. They wore a cream-coloured tunic that might have reached their knees, but the position of their legs had invited gravity to pull the hemline back, leaving freckled, fair skin exposed. 

Montparnasse hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as breathed, but something in the air must have announced him. Jehan’s eyes flew open, meeting Montparnasse’s immediately. 

“Oh,” they said, softly, their body frozen in surprise. 

Montparnasse too felt strangely exposed, the ice-cold feeling of being caught welling up in his chest. 

“Sorry,” he said, his voice suddenly shaky, and he swallowed. 

“It’s you,” was the response, and it sounded like relief, though Montparnasse couldn’t say why.

“Montparnasse,” he said, instantly feeling stupid. 

“I’m Jehan.”

_ I know _ , Montparnasse wanted to say. _ I remember _ . But he had only said two words to

Jehan and regretted them both, and so he said nothing, letting the moment pull itself taut.  

“Do you want to sit?” Jehan said, and Montparnasse let out his breath. 

A thin camping mattress had been laid out in front of the tent, and Montparnasse walked to it, kneeling down next to Jehan. It was strange, he considered. His midnight walk had been to rid himself of the discomfort of the day, to bring him back into himself. And yet, Jehan’s presence did not challenge that goal. 

Without speaking, Jehan offered Montparnasse the joint, which he took gratefully. He held the smoke in his lungs a moment, and let it out in a slow sigh.

“Thanks,” he said as he passed it back. Jehan nodded, smiling gently. 

“Most nights, at least one person won’t be able to sleep and they’ll come visit me,” they said. “I’m glad it was you tonight.”

_ Why? _ Montparnasse wanted to ask. “Is it because you have the best weed?” he asked instead.

“Mmm, no, that’s definitely Joly,” they said. “The best conversation, maybe. The best atmosphere, for sure.”

Montparnasse glanced back at the tent. Really, it was just a massive tapestry held up by a few supports dug into the ground. Most of the far end hung from the back of an old Volkswagen van. The back doors were open, and Montparnasse could see an empty space with room for a narrow mattress, surrounded by an array of pots, books, hanging plants, and draping fabric. 

“Do you live out of the van?” he asked, surprised by his own curiosity. 

“Mhm,” Jehan said, following his gaze. “I sleep outside when it’s warm and dry, but I don’t need much space.” 

“It’s nice,” said Montparnasse, honestly. Maybe in the daylight it would look different, but in the muted fairy lights mirroring the stars overhead, and the sweet-smelling smoke around them, Montparnasse could see the romance of the setup. 

 

Jehan lit another joint, and they passed it back and forth in comfortable silence. When Jehan at last spoke again, they sounded far away. 

“What are you running from?”

A drop of distrust and self-preservation called to Montparnasse from somewhere deep inside him, but the voice didn’t quite reach the fog in his brain. 

“Who says I’m running from something?” he said instead.

“Isn’t that how the story goes?” replied Jehan. “Outsiders and runaways find home in the fantasy world we create?”

Montparnasse considered it. 

“Isn’t the mythos attraction enough at this point? Maybe I’m running towards something, not away from it.”

“Mmm,” hummed Jehan. There was a pause, and then they added, “I was running away. I still am, I suppose.”

“From what?”

“Monsters,” Jehan said simply, and held out their arms. Long, thin lines of ink wrapped around their forearms and up, disappearing into under the rolled up sleeves around their biceps. Vines dotted with small blooming flowers, lines of words strung together in an illegible cursive, a snake highlighted in silver with diamonds for eyes. Every tattoo was beautiful, and every tattoo ran along the length of a scar. 

It took a moment for Montparnasse to absorb what he was looking at. Some scars were small, almost invisible beneath the ink. Others were thicker, angry gashes healed into rough topography. 

“I didn’t do all of them,” Jehan said, their gaze on their arms as they slowly rotated them. “There’s more on my back. I didn’t do those to myself either. At the time, though, I was convinced that I deserved them. It took me a long time to unlearn that.”

“How did you do it?” asked Montparnasse, and his voice sounded strained to his own ears. 

Jehan looked up, meeting his gaze. Their eyes were warm and brown and soft and sad. They smiled.

“I learned how to fly,” they said. “I learned to fly and I learned to fall, but once I had defeated gravity, it was easier to face everything else.”

Montparnasse wasn’t sure he believed that. He wasn’t sure if Jehan believed it either, their face unreadably calm. He held out his own arm. 

“This isn’t the reason I’m running, but it could have been,” he said. Montparnasse’s scars were different from Jehan’s. Where theirs were long and thin, Montparnasse’s were round and puckering with thick tissue. They ran down his arm, ending on the back of his hand. 

“You can feel them,” he said.

Jehan reached out a pale hand, running their fingertips over his skin, lightly circling the old wounds. Goosebumps erupted under the touch, and Montparnasse fought back a shiver. 

“These are cigarette burns,” said Jehan, and Montparnasse felt a surge of regret and guilt for the crease that appeared on their forehead. 

“My foster father,” he explained. “It was easier when he was drunk. If I was quiet enough, he would just forget I was there. When he was sober, though…” He gestured to a scar on his wrist. “For a lamp he didn’t remember breaking.” Another, near the crook of his elbow. “For stealing from him. I took the end of a tub of ice cream. I hadn’t eaten in two days.” Another, on the soft flesh of his inner arm. “Just because he could.”

Jehan released his arm, anger and sadness sitting starkly on their features. 

“There’s more, all the way up to my shoulder. I let it happen over and over before I finally left. I was thirteen.”

“You didn’t  _ let _ anything happen,” said Jehan, their soft voice suddenly fierce and clear. “You  _ survived _ over and over again.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t seem like much by comparison now.”

“To what you’re running from?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t compare.”

Montparnasse snorted softly. “Not everyone can learn to fly.”

“Bullshit. Anyone can fly,” said Jehan. “You just need to find the right kind of wings.”

That, Montparnasse certainly did not believe, but he didn’t say so, unwilling to break up the conversation up with realism. Fantasy, he supposed, could be soothing. The thought was punctuated by a poorly-disguised yawn, mirrored a second later by Jehan.

“I should let you sleep,” he said, standing.

Jehan leaned back into their cushion. “I’m glad you came,” they said. 

Montparnasse nodded, unsure of how to reply. “Goodnight,” he said simply, and turned. 

He felt the desire to sent a quick look back, but he made it around the corner of the nearest trailer, out of the influence of Jehan’s space. Beyond their circle of light, the row of trailers seemed dull and cold in the darkness. Montparnasse made his way back to his own temporary lodgings, silently slipping through the small doorway. Marius and Enjolras slept on as Montparnasse quietly pulled off his boots and lay back against the pillow. His mind was full and hazy, and despite himself, it pulled him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter being up so fast thanks to of the Canadian government not giving me enough stuff to do at work. 
> 
> Um. Sorry, also, for hurting ur faves.


	5. Chapter 5

Something was grinding nearby. Sunlight prodded at Montparnasse’s eyelids just as insistently. He opened his eyes and immediately came face to face with a startled-looking Marius, who jumped backwards.

“Sorry!” he squeaked, flushing. “I, ah, didn’t know how to wake you up?”

Montparnasse’s mouth was painfully dry. “What’s that noise?” he croaked, ignoring Marius’s stuttered apologies. 

“The tent is coming down,” Marius said. “We’re supposed to, um, help?” 

Montparnasse fought off a groan. “Give me a second,” he said. “I’ll meet you out there.”

Marius didn’t argue, and hurried out, leaving Montparnasse to dress quickly. He splashed water on his face, and leaned down to drink from the tap. He would probably kill someone for a coffee, but he saw no trace of beans or brewers in the trailer, so he just slipped on a pair of sunglasses and stepped outside. 

Where the big top had been towering above the rest of the circus grounds the night before, nothing but a naked pole remained aloft. Voices called to each other in what seemed to be an effort to move the fabric into the back of a long truck. Montparnasse made his way towards it, stopping a few yards away from it, next to where  Éponine stood. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping?” he drawled.

“I already helped take it apart. There’s like ten different pieces of fabric that get fastened together. What the hell have you been doing?”

“Looking for coffee. Where did you get that?” he replied, looking at the paper cup in  Éponine’s hand. He made a grab for it, but  Éponine’s reflexes were tuned to him, and she whipped it out of the way, sloshing coffee over her hand.

“Fuck off! I got it from Feuilly. Maybe try introducing yourself to them and see if that gets you what you want, instead of being a dick!”

“You fucking suck,” he snarked back at her, but cast his gaze out to find the elusive Feuilly. 

“That’s them,” she said as she wiped her hand on her jeans, nodding towards the person dismantling foldable bleachers. 

Montparnasse didn’t answer her, but stalked off towards them, flipping Eponine off as he went. 

“Can I help?” he called out as he approached Feuilly. Their hair was short, barely long enough to stay up in the little ponytail sticking straight out of their head, and sweat glistened on their shoulders and brow. 

“Absolutely!” they said cheerfully, taking the moment to stretch. “Montparnasse, right? I’m Feuilly. Sorry I didn’t get to meet you last night. And sorry you’re being thrown right into the heavy lifting.”

Montparnasse smiled politely. “It’s no problem.” That wasn’t true. He had immediately regretted the offer once he could see the effort it would entail. Montparnasse and sweat had never gotten along. It was worth it, though, when Feuilly picked up the massive thermos sitting in the trampled grass at the base of the metal stairs. 

“Coffee?” they said casually, as if they weren’t offering pure ambrosia. Montparnasse managed some sort of thank you as he poured himself a cup and took a big sip, damn the scalding on his tongue. 

“There’s a latch every few feet on the platform. If you wouldn’t mind unhooking them, we can fold these up and slide them right into the truck.”

Montparnasse followed Feuilly’s instruction, ducking under the bleachers to reach the latches. Chewed gum was stuck to the bottom of many of the seats, bits of glitter and dirt clinging to them. Montparnasse wrinkled his nose, crouching down further to keep it away from his hair. By the time he emerged from the far end, Feuilly was already following, pushing the bleachers into their folded shapes. Surprisingly, the metal structure wasn’t heavy, and Feuilly and Montparnasse easily hoisted it up, sliding it along the wall of the long truck painted with the logo of the circus. Quietly, they turned to the next set of bleachers, working their way around the circle of seating sitting naked and exposed in the absence of the tent. Feuilly didn’t ask him any questions, seemingly at ease with the mutual silence. 

By the time they finished, Montparnasse had come to terms with his own sheen of sweat. Looking around, he was surprised at how packed up and organized the grounds had become. People were hooking up trailers and picking up stray garbage. The midway was gone, and just a field remained, a few vans and trailers only hinting of the mystical energy of the night before. 

“I think they’re converging,” said Feuilly, indicating towards Combeferre’s office trailer where people were starting to gather. They made their way over, and Montparnasse nudged  Éponine as he came up to stand beside her. 

“Alright, I think we’re pretty much good to go,” Combeferre was saying. “I’ll do one more sweep of the grounds, but can we be ready to go in about 5 minutes? Montparnasse,  Éponine - do you two have everything you need? We can wait if you needed to get anything else from town.”

“No, thank you,” said Montparnasse said quickly, grazing  Éponine’s hand in a tiny gesture of comfort. 

“Alright,” said Combeferre, and Montparnasse couldn’t help but feel a twinge of gratitude for the smooth transition. “We have enough drivers for all the vehicles, but you two can ride with someone. Who has room? In a vehicle with seats,” he said, pointedly looking towards Grantaire, who grinned. 

“I’ve got a seat in my truck,” said Cosette, cheerfully. “ Ép, do you want to help hook up the horse trailer and ride with me?”

_ Ép?  _ Montparnasse mouthed discreetly towards  Éponine, who narrowed her eyes but otherwise ignored him, and followed Cosette.

“I have room in my van for Montparnasse,” said a voice from behind him. Montparnasse wasn’t sure what he had expected of Jehan in the daylight. Perhaps he hadn’t because the idea would have seemed inconceivable in his drug-addled brain the night before. But the sun threatening to scorch the grass around them did not rob Jehan of their own radiance. They were dressed in a yellow t-shirt and denim overalls, covered in what seemed to be patches stitched on by hand. Their hair was loose, with a single thin braid pinned across their forehead

“Perfect,” said Combeferre, dismissing the rest of the group. “Remember to pee before we go.” 

Jehan started off without waiting for Montparnasse, and so he followed a few paces back. He watched the way their calves moved, the muscles pronounced under their skin. Their arms, though lith as a tree branch, showed similar definition. They were an acrobat, Montparnasse reminded himself, forcing his eyes away. Of course their body was strong. 

One of the sleeping trailers was already attached to the back of Jehan’s van, their own outdoor setup nowhere to be seen. Jehan opened the driver’s side door, got in, and scrambled over the seat to unlock the passenger's door. 

“It doesn’t like to open from the outside,” they explained as they pushed it open for Montparnasse. They cleared away some loose paper and knicknacks scattered on the seat and floor, and retreated to their side, allowing Montparnasse to slip in. 

The van was old but airy, lacking the distinct weight of vintage grime most old cars shared. The back was messy, with the camping mattress pushed up against the various plants, carpet bags, and weathered wooden boxes. 

“I don’t actually know where we’re going,” Montparnasse said as he settled in.

“Just outside of Lyon!” Jehan said brightly, sliding the keys into the ignition and bringing the van to life with a pained sputter. “Then we have a few more weeks of shows down in the south, and then we’ll head back to Paris for winter training.”

“Winter training?”

“Mm. We don’t do shows in the winter so we take that time to practice tricks, come up with new stories and acts, and...experiment.”

Slowly, Jehan maneuvered across the uneven ground to where Montparnasse could see the rest of the circus vehicles had converged. The long truck Montparnasse had helped pack seemed to be heading the parade of mismatched trucks and trailers. Another long vehicle sat nearby, its bed naked, and its beams supporting the few small food and game booths fastened to it. Jehan pulled up, and idled patiently for the company to start moving. 

“Will you miss home?” they asked, looking sideways at Montparnasse. 

“No,” he said, wondering again what it was in Jehan’s voice that made him want to give an answer. “I don’t have a real home, so there’s nothing to miss.” 

“People can be home,” Jehan said. 

Montparnasse considered. The only things that still tied him to Montfermeil were Gavroche and Azelma. But it was responsibility that made up that connection, not longing. They wouldn’t survive in that house much longer unless he could do something about it. It wasn’t that he wanted the kids with him, necessarily. God knows he was no role-model, and he certainly didn’t have any claim to them. They were  Éponine’s family, her home, not his. 

“ I have Éponine,” he said instead. 

Jehan nodded. “Good.”

They both fell silent, and the first truck began to move. Jehan’s van fell into line as the procession slowly moved out.  

Despite himself, Montparnasse did glance back in the mirror as they paused at a stoplight on the edge of town. The buildings were still grey and heavy despite the bright sunlight. Montparnasse watched it until it disappeared behind a hill, like smoke blown away by a fresh wind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some ROAD TRIP FUN. 
> 
> Also it’s my birthday so you have to leave me a comment it’s the law.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Talk of drug addiction, gang violence, Nazis, Holocaust/Holocaust denial, homophobia, and homophobic slurs. All addressed through a second-hand account, and nothing graphic.

Jehan had turned on the radio and was singing along to the strange synth-pop Montparnasse didn’t recognize. Their voice was soft and breathy, not always on key, but utterly void of hesitation.

Montparnasse struggled. He had never handled boredom well, and for some reason his boredom felt fused with anxiety, sending currents under his skin that jolted his nerves. He checked his phone, and then again, but he had no messages. No one was missing him yet. He had resigned himself to staring out the window when Jehan spoke. 

“Two truths and a lie.”

Montparnasse blinked, and turned to face them. Their eyes were on the road, the fingers of their right hand gently tapping on the wheel. 

“Pardon?”

“It’s a game. I tell you three facts about me. One of them is a lie. You have to guess which one. Then we switch.”

Montparnasse knew of it, of course, and had considered it the last game he would ever play. Willingly giving up information about himself to a near-stranger was one of the most dangerous things he could do. But Jehan had already reached into him and pulled out some of his most personal stories, and so he was a only a little surprised with himself when he said,   “Okay.”

“Okay. One, I taught myself how to read. Two, I have five siblings. And three, I was once expelled from high school.”

Montparnasse considered. “You didn’t teach yourself to read,” he decided. 

Jehan smiled. “I did, actually. My parents never read to me at all. I got impatient, and since I was an only child with no one else to teach me, I took matters into my own hands.”

“You’ve been expelled, then,” said Montparnasse, still turning the image of a young Jehan in his head.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“I hit a teacher.”

Montparnasse stared at them. “You what?”

“He was a Nazi. He taught history, and went on about how the Nazi occupation was the best thing to ever happen to France. He talked about how if it had lasted longer, our country would have been better unified, because everyone would be straight and white and Christian. I was doing a presentation about the gay, Romani, and disabled people who were also sent to concentration camps, and he interrupted me to tell me my statistics were wrong, that none of these people were targeted, and that they had made it all up to play the victim after the war. He said those groups were leeches on society, and have been stealing handouts for generations. So I called him a fascist, and he called me a faggot, and so I walked over to his desk and punched him in the face.”

“Wow,” said Montparnasse, not knowing what else to say.

“I broke his nose,” continued Jehan. “He tried to hit me back, too, which is why I only got one swing in. He was yelling at me, and I just picked up my bag, walked out of the classroom, and went home. My parents got a call from the school that night, and I never went back.” Jehan’s voice was calm as they spoke, but a tension rolled under their words, and their grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I don’t regret it,” they said softly. “My father almost kicked me out, he was so angry. But I wouldn’t have regretted it then either.”

“Punch more Nazis,” said Montparnasse.

Jehan smiled again. “Exactly. Your turn.”

“Right,” Montparnasse said, fighting a grimace. “One, I joined a gang when I was 13. Two, I used to be addicted to cocaine. Three, I’ve been to jail four times.” He watched Jehan’s expression closely, looking for any hint of fear, pity, or distrust. He saw nothing but the slight furrow of their brow.

“Those are heavy,” mused Jehan. 

“I don’t have a lot of happy stories about my life.”

“Hmm. I don’t think you were addicted to cocaine.”

“8 years. I started using when I joined the gang. I’m two years clean now. I’ve never been to jail, though. God knows I should have, a hundred times over. Maybe I would have learned my lesson and gotten clean earlier if I had. It’s hard to stop doing something like that, though, went you’re good at not getting caught.”

“Why did you stop?”

“The crime or the cocaine?”

“Both.”

“It kind of went hand in hand. I was on a job with another guy, and I was high as a fucking kite. I was supposed to be watching his back, but I couldn’t pay attention. I didn’t see the police. I got away, and he got dragged off with a bullet in his shoulder. I fucked up. Nobody wanted anything to do with me. I didn’t want anything to do with me either. I locked myself up in a shithole apartment for two weeks, and waited out the withdrawal. I thought I was going to die, and I thought I deserved it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Jehan said softly.

“I am too. Most of the time.”

Jehan just nodded, and didn’t press him. The two of them sat quietly for a while, letting the radio take over. Montparnasse felt less restless than he had before, and replayed Jehan’s stories in his head as they drove. 

Eventually, the truck leading the caravan turned off into the parking lot of a gas station and rest stop. Montparnasse watched Courfeyrac fling open his door and sprint to find a bathroom, as the rest of the company took the opportunity to stretch their legs and buy something to eat. By the time Montparnasse had finished his stale sandwich and they had moved out onto the road again, the early afternoon sun had puddled around him like a heat lamp. The warmth and lack of sleep played across his eyelids as he blinked heavily before he let them fall shut.

 

“Montparnasse.”

He jumped, awake and on edge in a heartbeat. Jehan seemed unphased, though, even as Montparnasse’s hand had gone to the knife concealed at his hip. 

“We’re here,” they said simply, and opened their door. 

Even as his startled reaction dissipated, the quick fluttering of his heart did not. Slowly, he fumbled with his door until it clicked open, and stepped out onto the grounds. They were in what looked like a sprawling park by the edge of a small lake. Montparnasse could see the tops of buildings beyond the trees, but the space was enclosed and far enough away from the city’s roads to seem removed. People strolled along paths and sat on nearby benches, a few stopping to watch as the colourful procession began to be unpacked. 

Taking apart the circus, Montparnasse soon found, was painfully easy compared to putting it up. Even ground needed to be found for the location of the big top, before the hours of putting together the seating and raising the tent itself even began. Game and food booths needed to be released from their truck, and set up in an organized way. A paddock needed to be set up for Cosette’s horse, and a collapsible fence tied with colourful ribbons ran around the grounds.

“There isn’t a show tonight, is there?” Montparnasse asked Feuilly as they struggled to move the ticket booth over a stubborn rock.

“No, no,” Feuilly replied, running the back of their hand over their forehead. “Nothing tomorrow either. Tomorrow, we’ll put up some posters, hand out flyers, and hire a few local people to run some of the booths. We’ll do a week of shows and then pack up again.”

Montparnasse just nodded, lacking the breath to form words as they used the last of their combined strength to pull the booth free. 

 

By dinner time, Montparnasse would have been happy to soak his aching muscles in the hot soup ladled out by one of the clowns. It seemed everyone felt the same fatigue, as the group was mostly quiet as they sat out on the grass to eat. It was so different from the energy the night before, as though the show itself was the powersource of the performers. People sat in small groups, talking and stretching out to watch the sunset, and eventually, the stars as night closed in. Montparnasse sat next to  É ponine, half paying attention to the banter she was exchanging with Grantaire and the strong man, Bahorel. He found his mind drifting, his attention being pulled to his left where Jehan sat, Enjolras’s head in their lap. They threaded their fingers through his hair, gently braiding and unbraiding the blonde strands. Montparnasse ran a hand through his own hair, and pushed down the strange twinge of resentment towards Enjolras that sprang into his chest. 

Eventually, the group dispersed, migrating towards their beds, until  É ponine gently kicked Montparnasse in the ribs, reminded him to get some sleep, and turned in herself. As he stood up, Montparnasse felt weariness run through him, but give way to the urge to again take a walk by moonlight. He made his way through the quiet grounds, passing trailers, towards the gate. Jehan’s van was dark, as was the tent they had set up again outside it, no gentle music laced with sweet smoke. Montparnasse continued on, ignoring the disappointment he internally berated himself for having.  He made his way towards the shore of the lake, to the break in the ring of trees that encircled it, capturing a soft celestial glow on its surface like a bowl of mercury. 

A ripple and a splash echoed in the quiet night, and Montparnasse started, casting out his gaze to scan for waterfowl or fish. Instead, it was just his heart he caught in his throat. Standing waist-high in the water, their skin painted in silver, was Jehan, naked and gleaming in the moonlight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my job for giving me nothing to do until 4pm so I have time to write. 
> 
> um. I might need the change the rating when the next chapter happens for. reasons. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Bodies of water, bodies of people doing uuuuuh sexy things

 

Montparnasse didn’t breath as he watched Jehan sink into the lake in a slow breast stroke. It was so quiet he could hear their breath as they took a lungful of air and disappeared beneath the surface. They could be a siren for what they had done to Montparnasse. He could not tear his eyes away, even taking a step towards the water where he would inevitably be pulled under and drowned. 

Their head reemerged, their hair water-weighted and dark, and they smiled when they caught sight of Montparnasse. The smile was too bright in the moonlight, and it coaxed him forward when Jehan put out a hand and beckoned. 

He didn’t take the time to think. His nimble fingers made quick work of his boot laces, and he pulled them off to stand barefoot in the soft grass. He couldn’t look up, though, as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, and unbuttoned his trousers. Montparnasse had long ago come to understand the power his physique had over other people, and he rarely grew embarrassed when revealing it. But as he carefully folded his clothing in a pile on top of his boots, he was grateful to the night that hid the heat in his cheeks. 

He left his underwear on, and took a step towards the lake, finally meeting Jehan’s gaze again. They were watching him closely, a tint of a smile colouring the edge of their lips. The first step in was tentative, Montparnasse having braced himself for cold water, but the lake was shallow and warm, baked for weeks by the summer sun. 

Jehan waited for him to reach waist level before the pushed off backwards, a dare to Montparnasse to follow. Slowly, he sank down until the water reached his neck, careful to keep his hair dry. He was not the strongest swimmer, and as he moved forward, he was careful to keep at least one foot in contact with the soft lake floor. He stopped a few feet from Jehan, uncertain of how or if he should close the distance. Jehan made that decision, though, moving forward to meet him. 

“Hi,” they said, as softly as the ripples trembling around them. 

“Hi,” said Montparnasse. 

“I should warn you. We’re not supposed to swim in this lake.” Their murmur was music, and it echoed faintly against the still surface.

“I have been known to break the rules,” he said, sounding, he hoped, more suave than he felt. He was used to the blushing, hushed responses to his coquetry. It felt strange, being at the mercy of someone else’s charm. 

“The most exciting secrets always happen at night,” Jehan said. “I’m glad, though, that we don’t need to hide from the moon. She would approve.”

Montparnasse wasn’t sure he understood what Jehan meant, but he made a low sound of agreement, and tilted his head back. Sure enough, the sky was clear. Light from the surrounding city dimmed the stars, but the bluish moon glowed like a lantern above them. Montparnasse felt Jehan shift in the water beside him, stretching out to float on their back as they watched the heavens. The lines of their form seemed longer, their pale limbs distorted by the water. Montparnasse’s eye followed them without intention, taking in their soft stomach, the curve of their hip, the gentle peak of their breasts. Montparnasse looked away. 

“People tend to think of Artemis as the goddess of the moon,” they said. “Greek mythology tends to be our touchstone for natural divinity, even if we don’t know it. Artemis was a virgin goddess. We often think of the moon as pure and less...hmm...hot-blooded. But in other cultures, the moon and her deities watch over lovers’ trysts. They know what happens in the dark.”

Jehan let out a small sigh, and pulled themself upright again. They were close to Montparnasse, so close that their hands bumped up against each other under the water. It was an accident, on Montparnasse’s part at least, but when his hand didn’t draw away, Jehan ran theirs lightly up his arm. The soft touch sent beads of water running back down, and he shivered. Jehan left their hand on his shoulder, and when he looked into their eyes, he read a silent invitation. Gently, he pushed his other hand forward, finding contact with their hip. He didn’t pull them in to him, though his chest felt heavy with want. Instead, waited for their small nod, and leaned forward, pressing his lips to Jehan’s.

They responded immediately. The first beat of their kiss was careful and soft, but shy beginnings gave way quickly. Jehan offered more weight behind their touch, letting their mouth fall open against Montparnasse’s. He let them lead, at first, tentative to push them, but he soon lost the sense of control along with his sense of self. There was only Jehan’s mouth, warm and sweet, only their body, somehow pressed up against his - how he had not noticed it happen made no sense to him. How could he have missed even a second of that feeling?  

One of their legs wrapped around his, unweighted, the siren tangling him in their grasp, ready to pull him under. Montparnasse’s hand on their hip stroked the curve, unable to move past the awe of their geography. His other hand had pressed into the back of their head as they had moved in to him, and he sent it down, running over their back and the wet silk of their hair. One of Jehan’s hand mirrored him, exploring the back of his torso, but they had pressed the other up against his chest, fingertips flexing into nails and back again as they kissed, and Montparnasse shuddered. His heart jumped under their hand, and again, and again, every time his mind registered the pressure of their bare body against his. The hand on Jehan’s hip slip upwards, and Montparnasse broke away for a heartbeat.

“Can I?” he breathed, and felt the leap again as Jehan guided his hand against their chest. 

They had moved shallower, erasing Montparnasse’s nagging fear of going under. The water supported them, propping him up as Jehan straddled his lap, half sitting, and half floating. It wasn’t enough contact. He wanted to be flush against them, wanted to be inside of them. He was hard and straining against his underwear, a piece of modestly that seemed absurd to him now. He ignored it, though, and focused instead on the swell of flesh under his palm. It was impossibly smooth, and he ran his thumb over the peak. The movement won him a shaky sigh, open against his mouth. He pulled back, meeting Jehan’s eye with a half smile before lowering his head. 

He lay an experimental kiss against their nipple, uncertain if it was his heart or theirs he could feel beating wildly. Jehan’s fingers curled around the back of his head, and Montparnasse couldn’t give a damn about keeping his hair dry as long as they were tugging on it like that. He opened his mouth, letting his tongue lead. Jehan’s sighs fell deeper, turning into a low moan as Montparnasse sucked gently. Their legs crossed around him, hooking behind his back, like they too craved every inch of exposed skin. Their grip on his hair grew tighter, and one sharp tug elicited a hard gasp from him. He took the opportunity to move to their other breast, renewing his task, growing bolder as he sucked a bruise onto their skin, and scraped his teeth over it. 

The moan in his ear was louder, laced with need. “Touch me,” Jehan said, their voice higher, almost a whine if a whine could sound like a mouthful of gold. 

His lips still working at their chest, Montparnasse dragged one hand down past their waist, trailing fingers through hair, and lightly stroking at the heat he found there. The noise Jehan let out rippled across the lake. Montparnasse might have cared, once, that someone would hear, but the feeling of Jehan beginning to grind into his hand had any concern vanishing. 

Jehan’s fingers were playing at the elastic waistband still snug on his hips. 

“Please,” he managed, and the feeling of them reaching down and over his cock made him shudder so violently that Jehan pulled back. They were reading his face, and he clutched at them, desperate to tell them that,  _ no, it’s okay, please, just do it again _ , but feeling like words had left him. Jehan’s pupils were large in the darkness, their lips parted. They seemed to understand. 

“I want you,” they breathed, and he could feel them trembling against his head, against his chest, around his fingers. 

_ I want you too _ , he wanted to say, was desperate to say. 

“I don’t have anything with me,” he said instead, his voice rough, like Jehan’s kisses had robbed him of it. 

“I do,” they said, a gleam passing those lust-blown pupils. “In my clothes. On the bank.” They untangled their limbs from around him, rising in a waterfall of droplets, and waded quickly through the water towards the edge of the lake. The water felt suddenly cold to Montparnasse, and he breathed in, letting the air out slowly. He moved closer to shore just as Jehan reached their pile of discarded clothes. He watched them, their bare form looking like a beacon to him. 

They seemed to find what they were looking for, discarding the wrapper amongst their things, and wading back into the lake. Montparnasse knelt, the water up to his chest, waiting for them. When they reached him, Jehan knelt too.

“Is this okay?” they asked, and even the gentle care in their voice was enough to send Montparnasse’s heart pounding again.

“Yes,” he said, not caring a second for the strained desperation in the word. 

“Stand up?” Jehan said, and Montparnasse did, slipping off his underwear as he went. The water reached just above his knees, and Jehan moved forward, taking in his form, their mouth slightly open.

Montparnasse’s own mouth was dry.

Carefully, Jehan reached out, taking Montparnasse’s cock in hand. It ached as Jehan slipped the condom over the head, and rolled it down slowly. The sight of them, on their knees, meeting his eye, water dripping from their hair - there were a thousand things Montparnasse wanted. He sank back into the water, wrapped an arm around Jehan’s waist, and pulled them close to him. They found his mouth enthusiastically, and he worked his hand back between their legs. It was faster, this time, their mouth and their body moving firmly against him, and he responded in kind, grabbing at their hair and their ass. He dropped a hand, grabbing the base of his cock and guiding it between their legs, pausing to defer to them. 

They sank down slowly, their breath a long, hummed exhale. Montparnasse’s mind felt split in two, with half of him wanting desperately to move, while the other half begged him to stay in this second of bliss forever. It was only when Jehan rolled their hips, and they both released low moans, that the second half of him was silenced. Rocking into them, holding them tight around the waist, nothing could distract from the way Jehan felt. Every part of them that touched his skin felt like a flame, scorching marks into his flesh of a feelings he never wanted to forget. The water supported much of their weight, and so Montparnasse used his hands to help move their body closer, deeper. Their dual moaning started hushed, creeping louder as they moved in tandem. 

“God, you feel so good,” Montparnasse gasped into their ear. Jehan had thrown their arms over his shoulders, pressing tight against him, running fingernails up and down his back. “I wanted you the moment I saw you. ”

“I--ohh. Fuu-- Fuck!” Jehan lost their words, crying out as Montparnasse’s pace began to stutter, growing more frenzied with his movements. One arm still anchoring them to him, Montparnasse slipped his other hand between them, rubbing circles around the the bundle of nerves he found there. 

“Montpaaaa--!” Jehan’s cry cut off into silence, their head thrown back and their mouth wide as they rocked through the waves of shudders. The hand in his hair, the name on their lips, and the tight clench around him broke Montparnasse too, and he muffled the sounds of his own orgasm against Jehan’s shoulder. 

 

They stayed locked together until the roaring in their ears went down, rocking together shallowly, overstimulated and sensitive. Finally, Montparnasse pulled out, and watched Jehan’s face as they let out one last shuddering breath. 

“That was- You are amazing,” they said at last, as they reaching the shore.

Montparnasse smiled, honest and easy. “You weren’t too bad yourself.” He shook his head. “No, that’s bullshit. That was incredible” 

“Do I get an award?” Jehan purred, stepping up onto the grass. They picked up their things, wrapping themself in the long robe, and handing the towel to Montparnasse. 

“You certainly deserve one,” said Montparnasse, and he wrapped the towel around his hips. “Seducing people you met 24 hours ago. Saving the day with a lucky condom.”

Jehan smiled. “Sometimes you make your own luck,” they said, and started across the park, back to the campsite.

Montparnasse walked beside them in silence. They reached Jehan’s van too soon. They didn’t invite him in, didn’t offer to share their bed, didn’t give him a kiss to send him on his way. 

“Goodnight, Montparnasse,” was all they said, and disappeared into their makeshift tent. 

He walked back to his trailer alone, savouring their taste on his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What up I'm Jane I'm 24 and I never fucking learned how to write smut.
> 
> This is uuuuh the sexiest thing I've ever written? And published?? So now I need validation pls. (or you can tell me its the least sexy thing you've ever read thats cool too)
> 
> Honestly, I couldn't stop thinking about the pond in my city's public gardens while writing this, which they just had to empty of a decade's worth of duck shit soooo. Prime romance.
> 
> Sorry for changing the rating of this halfway through the story - I didn't know they were gonna get it on this visibly when I started writing. 
> 
> hmu at feyland on tumblr.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for alcohol and minor violence/domestic violence

 

The next morning, Montparnasse walked beside Éponine, passing out flyers, and holding posters still while she stapled them onto any available surface. Montparnasse had to admit that the posters were beautiful, all dark blues and silver starlight, anticipation hanging, somehow, in the glossy ink. 

“Come see the show tonight,” he told a middle-aged couple, startling them as he thrust a flyer into their hands. Éponine nudged him in the ribs, and he remembered to add a forced smile to the demand. 

“What is this?” asked the woman. She smelled strongly of a too-sweet perfume, and Montparnasse fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at both the pungency and her taste. 

“It’s a circus performance,” he said through smiling, gritted teeth. 

“Well, when is it?” she demanded, and Montparnasse’s jaw tensed further.

“Every night this week at 7pm,” he supplied, gesturing to the clearly printed information she held in her hands.

“Where is it, though?” 

Montparnasse dropped his smile. “That’s literally what the flyer is for,” he said, and stalked off down the street before he could hear the woman’s retort. 

Éponine jogged after him. “What’s eating your ass?”

“The human race? I’m not made for customer service. I’ve made a career doing the opposite of serving the public.” 

“Yeah, and how did that career pan out?” 

Montparnasse flipped her off and kept walking. Normally, idle, snarky banter with Éponine would have been the best possible way to deal with the absolute nightmare of a job that had him approaching people for something other than their wallets. Instead, he found strange seeds of resentment as she spoke, her words peppering his consciousness with holes that kept him from smoothly slipping back into the night before. He hadn’t told her yet, and he wasn’t sure why. They had never been shy with each other about their successful sexual encounters, often sparing no detail of anything from cock size to the discovery of embarrassing tattoos. Something about his encounter with Jehan, though, felt different. Private, at least for a little while. He wanted to hold on to the memory of them around him until the feeling finally dissolved into the lake water. 

He hadn’t slept for a long while after returning to his trailer. Marius had been snoring when he had entered, and he could see a dim light behind Enjolras’s curtain where he was presumably reading. Had he decided to look out into the small space, he might have had questions for the damp and half-naked Montparnasse. But he didn’t, and Montparnasse slipped into his bed, turning towards the trailer wall, and began to replay the evening over and over in his mind. 

“That’s it,” said Éponine eventually. 

The stacks of posters and flyers gone, they made their way back towards the park. Outside of the park gates, a crowd had gathered, watching something. It wasn’t until Montparnasse saw Grantaire being launched into the air that he realized what was going on. Grantaire landed effortlessly upside down, his hands pressing into Bahorel’s shoulders, his body straight as a pin. He wasn’t in costume, but he wore a red clown nose, as if anyone had any doubt of his profession. For some reason, Bahorel wore one too, and he grinned as Grantaire shifted his weight onto one hand, and quickly squeeze his own nose and then Bahorel’s in two firm honks. People around them laughed, and then broke into applause as Grantaire gracefully tumbled into Bahorel’s arms, who held him bridal style, before hoisting Grantaire above his head.

“7 o’clock this evening and through the rest of the week, folks!” called out Grantaire from his perch, where he comfortably reclined in Bahorel’s hands. “Come be shocked and amazed, and whatever else the poster says! It’s a show you won’t want to miss unless you’re exceptionally boring!” 

The crowd applauded again, and began to disperse as Grantaire made it back safely onto solid ground. Spotting Montparnasse and Éponine, he waved them over cheerfully.

“Post-poster duty drink?” he said, nodding back towards the circus grounds. 

“It’s not even noon yet,” Bahorel said.

Grantaire shrugged. “That’s what mimosas are for.”

“Yeah, fuck it,” said Éponine easily. “Parnasse is a slut for mimosas.”

Grantaire ignored the pointed glare Montparnasse shot at his friend, and looped his arms over Montparnasse’s and Éponine’s shoulders. “That is a quality I can respect in a man. I myself am a slut for all forms of alcohol, and also in the traditional way. If anyone is interested,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows. 

“Don’t throw out your back or something right before the show,” Bahorel warned with a grin. “And maybe give the newbies at least a week before bringing up weird circus sex.” 

“We have a reputation to maintain,” Grantaire told them seriously. “Lots of flexible people.”

Montparnasse felt the pink heat beginning to creep up his neck, the memory of cool water doing nothing to stop it. He didn’t say anything as Grantaire led them across the grounds towards a teal-painted bus. All the windows open, and the inside was bright as Montparnasse followed Grantaire up the stairs. The bus had been gutted of seats, and repurposed into a hipster’s wet dream. A mattress elevated on milk crates took up the back quarter of the space, the sheets as rumpled and unkempt as their owner. Various open crates lined the walls, holding everything from dishes to small instruments to horrifying marionettes. Every flat surface, including most of the ceiling, had been covered in swirls of paint. Evidence of real artistic talent blended with crude stick figures and handprints, and text flowed through the chaos in a dramatic hand. An old sofa and a hanging hammock chair had been placed near the bed, and Grantaire gestured towards them as he bent over a box to dig out cups. There didn’t seem to be any sort of running water in the bus, but there was a mini-fridge plugged into an extension cord that snaked out one window. The inside was filled with bottles and cans, and Montparnasse didn’t see a scrap of real food as Grantaire dug out a bottle of cheap champagne and some orange juice. 

“This is to prevent us from getting scurvy,” he said as he handed out mismatched mugs of generous portions. 

“I thought that only happened to pirates,” said Éponine as she leaned back in the hammock. 

“Pirates. Circus freaks. Whatever. Everyone needs their vitamin C. This is basically medicine. Cheers.” 

Montparnasse met the others in a toast, and then settled back against the couch. A breeze blew in one window and out another, like breath from a healthy lung. Grantaire and Bahorel, he found, were easy to be around. They laughed freely and spoke casually, treating Montparnasse and Éponine as though they were longtime friends rather than near strangers. It felt almost comfortable, watching Éponine exchange barbed comments rather than formal niceties. Grantaire kept their cups full as he and Bahorel shared stories, unfazed that Montparnasse and Éponine didn’t offer up many of their own. 

When at last Grantaire emptied the last of the champagne bottle in a quick swig, Bahorel rolled off of the end of Grantaire’s bed and got to his feet. 

“Alright, enough of that,” he said, stretching. “Let’s try to avoid getting pissed before the show, yeah? If you fall and die, Enjolras will kill you.” 

“Not to mention everyone would probably end up bugging  _ me _ for their money back,” observed Montparnasse as he also stood, finishing the last of his mimosa. 

“A fate truly worse than death,” said Grantaire solemnly. 

 

After thanking Grantaire, Montparnasse, Éponine, and Bahorel made their way out into the sun, slightly buzzed and, at least in Montparnasse’s case, significantly more relaxed. Bahorel peeled away from them, off to whatever pre-show rituals the performers had, despite the fact that the show was nearly 7 hours away. Montparnasse and Éponine eventually found Combeferre, tailed by a group of what turned out to be the locals hired to run the various booths and counters during the company’s time in Lyon. 

 

By the time the grounds opened to the public at 2 pm, the midway grounds were up and running smoothly. Éponine wandered the field, handing out balloons to kids and giving directions towards specific tents and games. Montparnasse was back in his spot at the entrance to the bigtop, keeping visitors out as Feuilly and Marius set up and ran through the tech inside. The creep of autumn showed itself as shadows on the grounds began to grow long earlier in the evening, naturally cueing the crowds towards the bigtop as 7 o’clock approached. 

“Have you seen Jehan?”

Marius had caught Montparnasse off-guard, and he did a double take at Marius’s red-tinged face poking through the tent canvas as he ripped a ticket and handed it back to its owner, ushering them in. 

“Uh. No?” 

“They didn’t show up backstage on time and now they’re um kind of late and I don’t know if they’re ready. Can you go see if they’re in their van? I have to get Catherine saddled up for Cosette.” 

Before Montparnasse could reply, Marius ducked back into the tent. It was useless to try to explain the problem of a missing usher to thin air, so Montparnasse just put down his basket of torn stubs. 

“Um. Just go in, I guess,” he told the small lineup of people waiting for him, and turned away. His phone said 6:49, and so he sped up his pace as he ducked behind the booths and headed towards the line of trailers. The lights and sounds from the circus grounds were slightly dimmed beyond the midway borders, but it wasn’t enough to catch the new tone in the air until Montparnasse was nearly upon it. 

The words were impossible to make out, hissed low as it was. The resulting sob, though, was loud and clear. Coming around the corner, Montparnasse could see the familiar shape of Jehan standing near the entrance of their tent. It might have been enough to make Montparnasse’s heart catch in his throat, had he not also set eyes on the other figure. A tall, lean man towered over Jehan, gripping their wrists in front of their chest. Something bitter sparked in Montparnasse’s gut as he moved forward, keenly aware that he had no plan. He had promised himself he would never again act without a plan. The spark inside him exploded, though, when the stranger, still blind of Montparnasse’s presence, gave Jehan a hard shake, wrenching at their arms as they fell back and were pulled forward with a quick snap. 

“What the  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?” Montparnasse snarled as he surged forward, grabbing the man by back of his shirt, startling him enough that he let go of Jehan. The man caught his footing, and wheeled around to take a swing at Montparnasse, who parried the blow easily, and took the man’s surprise to shove him to the ground. He felt a strong desire to kick the man where he lay, or better yet, to stomp the guy’s sharp nose back into his head. He fought the urge, though, turning instead to where Jehan had back away from the confrontation. Their face was red and their eyes puffy and wild, unable to focus on either Montparnasse or the man on the ground.

“Jehan-” Montparnasse started. He tried to make it sound like a promise. It came out strangled and alien instead, and Montparnasse bit his tongue.

Jehan turned and bolted.

The man on the ground was starting to rise, fists clenched, his expression rabid.

“Fuck you,” Montparnasse snarled, and spat, again catching the man off guard as the saliva landed on the ridge of his cheekbone. Montparnasse didn’t wait for more of a response, and took off after Jehan. He saw them reach the end of the row of trailers and turn off towards the safety of the lights. Montparnasse made it back to the midway in time to see Jehan duck into the backstage tent, and he slowed his pace, uncertain as to whether he should follow. Indecision twisted at him, pulling him towards the tent, pulling him back to the man in order to finish kicking the shit out of him. 

He chose neither. 

Montparnasse returned to his post at the entrance of the bigtop, wordlessly ushering late arrivals in as he scanned the grounds for- anything. Behind him, the audience hushed as the lights went out. Montparnasse realized he was clenching his jaw. Taking a breath, he cast out one last look, and stepped into the tent, the pounding in his head in sync with the sound of the low drums as the show began. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for knives, knife wounds, blood, & gendered slurs

Tension was the backbone of the circus performance, strung as rigid as a tightrope. Tension built in every drum beat, in every held breath, in the seconds before the execution of a trick. But the tension was meant to break, as soon as a trick landed, as soon as the cymbal crash cued the sighs of relief. 

As the show progressed, Montparnasse could all but taste the tension that refused to shatter as it was meant to. He wondered if the audience could feel it too. Something was off about the performers, something that suggested to Montparnasse that Jehan’s agitated entrance had shaken their friends as much as it had him. He almost expected not to see them at all, wondered if the music would skip past the hypnotic notes of the aerialist’s spell. 

He was surprised, then, by the waterfall of purple silk that spilled down towards Grantaire’s head, and Montparnasse followed his gaze up. Jehan hung in the air, unencumbered by gravity, before launching into their routine. Montparnasse had seen them tumble from their initial perch before, but anxiety still gripped him, even as they effortlessly caught themself in the twisting silks. Their face was calm, neutral, and Montparnasse searched it for more signs of what might be going on under the surface. 

Had he not been studying their face, he might have missed it. As they wrapped one foot into a hook of fabric, the material gave out from under them, and they dropped ten feet. They caught themself well before they hit the ground - another twenty feet at least - and extended their body horizontally as they clutched the silk, playing off the slip with a practiced grace. The audience applauded, seemingly blind to the fact that Jehan had nearly plummeted into the hard ground. Montparnasse, though, was frozen, catching the wild fear in Jehan’s expression. It was not intentional, he knew, the thought cemented by the wide-eyed shock Grantaire wore as he looked on helplessly from his elevated rope swing. 

Jehan finished their piece, lower to the ground but without further incident or indication of the stilted terror Montparnasse had briefly seen in them, the same terror that did not ease in his chest. For the second time, the show’s ending passed him by as he kept his eyes trained on Jehan, as though he could hold them aloft with the intensity of his gaze. When the house lights finally came back on, his mouth was dry, and his gut felt pained. 

 

Quickly abandoning the big top before the rush of audience members could slow him, Montparnasse moved quickly towards the back of the tent and the backstage space. His speed, though, did nothing to stop his eyes from raking over the circus grounds, keeping watch for the stranger that had attacked Jehan. 

“Where’s Jehan?” he demanded, startling Marius as he entered the tent, recognizing too late the force and inflection in his voice. 

Marius gawked at him, wordlessly pointing towards the table where Jehan was sitting, their knees drawn up to their chest, talking quietly with Feuilly. 

“They’re okay, thought,” offered Marius uncertainly. “People fall sometimes, but they caught themself. So they’re fine.”

Jehan’s tense, hunched form didn’t seem fine to Montparnasse, but he didn’t say so to Marius. Instead, he watched Jehan speak, their hair curtaining their face. He wasn’t quick enough, then, when Jehan raised their head suddenly, meeting Montparnasse’s eye. He held their gaze, more frozen in the focus than anything, and tried to read the emotional storm playing across their features. They dropped their eyes. 

His feet took him backwards, though, not towards them, and he turned to duck out of the tent again. His mind felt heavy, and it buzzed in his ears, as though someone had turned up the frequency on the cheerful din around him. He hadn’t meant to set a path in any particular direction, but he was not surprised to find himself heading towards Jehan’s campsite. The evening painted long stretches of darkness across the ground, and Montparnasse’s shadow reached Jehan’s tent before he did. 

Jehan was not there, of course, and neither was the stranger. It did nothing, though, to ease the feeling of distrust and anticipation with which Montparnasse was so familiar. The sense of wrong still hung over the little campsite, and Montparnasse gave into it, done with pretending he hadn’t come here for a reason. One of the large transport trucks was parked a short ways from Jehan’s van, and Montparnasse let himself melt into the shadow it cast. Partially obscured by the angle and the darkness, he crouched in the grass and waited. For Jehan, he told himself, to talk to them about what had happened. But also, he could feel in his gut, to keep it from happening again. 

He waited nearly an hour. Audience stragglers slowly filtered out of the circus grounds, and the clash of colourful music from various booths began to cut off as the local hires shut them down and headed home. By the time most of the lights had been turned off and the grounds had quieted to nothing but a few scattered voices, the circus crew began to return to their trailers. The movement caught Montparnasse’s attention, and he watched the dark shapes of his new co-workers finding their way to bed. Finally, a little of Montparnasse’s tension left him as Jehan turned down towards their van. Grantaire walked beside them, his stocky form recognizable even in the dim light. Montparnasse waited. He needed to speak to Jehan alone. 

Grantaire had other plans, it seemed. 

“Do you want to come spend the night at mine?” Montparnasse heard Grantaire say quietly. Jehan’s response was too faint to catch, but Montparnasse watched them duck into their tent while Grantaire waited, reemerging a moment later holding a small patchwork bag. They leaned into Grantaire’s side, and he put his arm around them as the two of them walked off towards Grantaire’s bus. 

Something hot rolled over in Montparnasse’s chest. He remembered Grantaire’s words from earlier that day, his offer to take any of them to bed. 

It didn’t matter, Montparnasse told himself. He had known Jehan for two days. He couldn’t possibly have become invested in them in such a short time. He had only wanted to check in with them after two scares that evening. But they were fine, it seemed, and didn’t need Montparnasse, and he didn’t have a reason to care. 

After Jehan and Grantaire had disappeared into the dark, Montparnasse stood, stretching out his cramped legs. He felt stupid, hiding in the shadows, and a weird mixture of embarrassment and anger settled in his stomach. It was powerful and nauseating, and so strong that it almost made him miss the movement in his periphery. 

Finely attuned senses made him freeze. Coming around from the back of Jehan’s van, a figure crept silently. For someone he had only seen once before, Montparnasse instantly recognized the shadowed form of the man who had attacked Jehan. Montparnasse watched, tense as an arrow poised to shoot, as the man leaned down to peer into the van. No matter what his gut reaction had been towards Jehan spending the night with Grantaire, a part of him swelled with relief that they were not there. 

Montparnasse waited until the man turned towards the tent, and then rushed him. He caught the stranger by surprise, using the man’s considerable height to ruin his balance, and he stumbled back against the van as Montparnasse slammed into him. The man grunted when he hit the vehicle, letting out a low hiss as his breath abandoned him. Montparnasse deflected the weak blow aimed at him, bringing his arm up to hold the guy by the windpipe as he flicked open the small knife in his pocket, bringing it up to the man’s face. 

“What, you really wanted to have another go?” he snarled. 

The man made a strangled sound. Montparnasse eased up a little on his neck, still holding his head firmly in place. 

“They have a guard dog now?” he rasped. “You do look like a little bitch.”

“What the fuck do you want with Jehan?” Montparnasse said coldly. 

“I’m just here for what belongs to me.”

Montparnasse doubled down on the force of his arm. “They don’t  _ belong  _ to anyone, you sack of shit.”

The man wheezed against the pressure at his throat, but Montparnasse didn’t let up again. “I just want what they took from me,” he said, and then jerked forward to push Montparnasse. Montparnasse had anticipated it. The man made another low sound of pain as the knife painted a superficial line down his face, his body still pinned against the van.

“What is it you want,” Montparnasse asked again. The usual charming calm he brought with him to most confrontations was nowhere to be found; his blood burned inside of him.

“They stole from me!” the man gasped, his throat straining against Montparnasse’s arm. “They ruined my life. Wormed their way into my bed and left me as soon as they could disappear with everything they wanted!” He struggled, weakly, but Montparnasse’s grip was tight. “They took my money, they ruined my career, every piece of work they ever influenced, all while whoring themself off to every sad bastard they could hunt down!”

“So, what, you came here to have a mature conversation with them? They don’t owe you a damn thing.”

“The fuck they don’t. And what do you think you have to do it? Let me guess - they let you fuck them and now you think you’re obligated to fight for them. They’re a fucking witch!”

Ice was beginning to creep down Montparnasse’s spine, but the heat in his chest was not dulled. 

“Shut your mouth,” he hissed at the man.

“That bitch is going to eat you alive,” he responded, and then spat into Montparnasse’s face, an echo of what Montparnasse had done to him a few hours earlier. 

Most people would have flinched, giving the man the opportunity to twist out of the tight grasp. He’d done it himself so many times, caught up against walls during fights, or when someone got too handsy with him. Confuse. Surprise. Especially when your opponent is armed - if you can hurt them, they can always hurt you more. 

Montparnasse hurt him. 

The man pulled hard to the left, turning right into the point of Montparnasse’s knife that had appeared there a second earlier. It sunk into his shoulder and he let out a groan of pain as Montparnasse twisted the blade lightly as he grabbed the back of the man’s hair, pulling back his head to expose his neck. He yanked the knife out, bringing it up against the man’s neck in a hard grip he knew he could feel. The wound in the man’s shoulder was bleeding freely, but Montparnasse doubted it would cause any lasting damage. He focused instead on the man’s face. His eyes were wide, primal feel rolling off of him in waves. Montparnasse almost smiled. Everyone thinks they’re tough up until a point. 

“I don’t care if Jehan murdered your family and burned down your home. They’re afraid of you and so I don’t trust a fucking thing you say. Now,” he said, turning the knife ever so slightly so the man could see a flash of metal and blood.  “I never want to see you hanging around here again. This was warning number two.” He pulled away, taking a quick step back just in case the man decided to swing. “There won’t be a third.”

The man’s right hand flew to his shoulder, letting out a low whine as he pressed on the wound. With one last wild look towards Montparnasse, he fled, away towards the entrance gate of the park. Montparnasse watched him go until the tall silhouette was out of sight. 

The night was warm, but Montparnasse was shaking. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :) :) come @ me feyland.tumblr.com
> 
> Also, tentative chapter number estimate


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR trigger warnings for this chapter, folks.  
> Talk of domestic abuse including physical, verbal, psychological and sexual abuse/torture, scarring, self-harm, mutilation, unhealthy coping, sexual content (but no actual sex), and Um. just a whole lot of trauma.

Montparnasse did not sleep much that night. The little rest he got was riddled with tension and intrusive dreams, full of unknown shadows and hidden identities that unnerved him more than any visible threat. By the time morning came, the exhaustion had started to catch up. Between his days of physical labour and his nights wandering and finding trouble for himself, his body had begun to rebel. Dragging himself outside, he tried to push away the weight overtaking his movements and his mind.

The sky was grey and low-hanging, muting Montparnasse’s surroundings just enough to make him grateful. He found Feuilly who apologetically told him he was stuck with the job of cleaning up garbage from the night before. It was tedious and as unglamourous as a job could be, and Montparnasse tuned out his surroundings in order to turn his attention back to whatever the fuck had happened the night before. 

Too many details swirled out of order, images of the scars on Jehan’s arms changing into the feeling of their hands pulling at his damp hair, before morphing into the man spitting out poisonous words about Jehan that had seeped in under Montparnasse’s skin. He didn’t startle easily, but when he turned to find Jehan standing close by as though he had conjured them there with his thoughts, he couldn’t help by jump. 

They wore a plain black leotard and footless purple tights. They were barefoot, and their hair was piled on top of their head and tightly secured. They had clearly been rehearsing, and Montparnasse felt a leftover jolt of the panic that had hit him the night before when Jehan had narrowly avoided a terrible fall. 

“Will you meet me in my tent after the show?” they said quietly, their big brown eyes far too troubled.

“Of course,” he said. Before he could conjure the words that he could feasibly share to comfort Jehan, they had moved past him and started across the midway. Montparnasse didn’t follow them. 

 

The show that night went off without a single near death experience. Grantaire’s expression was wary as he watched Jehan manipulate the aerial silks, causing them to dance under their touch. Their performance was smooth and flawless, but Montparnasse was not sure their routine would ever make him feel at ease. Maybe he needed to stop watching. 

 

When the show was over, Montparnasse couldn’t stay inside the tent as the exit flap became clogged with people. He didn’t want to be at Jehan’s tent before they showed up, and so he took his time walking the grounds, reminding himself not to scowl when people approached him with questions. 

Most of the crowd had dispersed and gone to bring their stories of the evening home when his self-restraint finally broke. He took a quiet moment to duck behind a concession stand and double back towards the trailers, ignoring the feeling skittering inside his chest. He came up softly to Jehan’s campsite. He didn’t see them outside but a dim orange light shone from within their tent. 

“Jehan?” he murmured as he got close. He sent a look back over his shoulder, automatically scanning for anything off. 

“Come in,” came Jehan’s voice, and Montparnasse didn’t hesitate. He pulled back the tassel-edged flap of the tapestry engineered into a doorway and went inside. 

The makeshift tent was warmly lit, sourced by a an old-fashioned style lantern encasing an edison bulb. The ground was nearly completely covered by small mats and flat cushions, most of the space taken up by the camping mattress Montparnasse had sat on next to Jehan the first night they met. At the far end, a tall plant filled in the gap where the tent had been attached to the van, like a living wall. Jehan sat in the middle of the space, having traded their costume for an oversized cotton shirt, their hair loose. Their stage makeup was intact and shimmering. They indicated to Montparnasse, and he moved to kneel beside them. 

They raised up onto their own knees immediately, putting their arms around his neck and  pulling him close. Their mouth was hot on his, and when he parted his lips in surprise, Jehan took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Montparnasse kissed back, the feeling of their body against his overtaking any of the things he had planned to say. He looped his arms around Jehan’s waist and let a soft groan spill into their mouth when they threaded a hand through his hair and pulled. 

Jehan was taking the lead, gently pushing Montparnasse backwards until he was leaning against a pile of cushions. Jehan followed the tilt of his body, letting gravity help press them into him. They started downwards, kissing his jaw, his neck, nipping at the skin.

“I thought we could talk,” Montparnasse breathed, trying to keep the words from shaking, and he let out the rest of the air in his lungs in a sharp sigh as Jehan bit down on his neck.

“Later,” Jehan said, their voice oddly rough, and the pushed at the collar of Montparnasse’s shirt, sucking a bruise onto the exposed skin. 

Jehan shifted, straddling Montparnasse’s hips. They pulled back from him, and Montparnasse shivered at their movement, at the friction of the body in his lap. The feeling intensified as Jehan swiftly pulled their shirt over their head. Their red hair tumbled around their bare shoulders, charged with static, framing their wild-tinted lion’s eyes with a mane. They dove back down towards him, kissing him fiercely as they slid their hands under the edge of his shirt. He raised up enough to help them peel it off, and they let him fall back, following. Their skin was hot to touch, far more so than it had been in the lake. Jehan rolled their hips, making Montparnasse bite back a moan, his body responding to Jehan’s. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, and raked their back as they ground into him. 

The skin under his fingers gave way suddenly to thick raised ridges across Jehan’s shoulder blades. Montparnasse didn’t remember feeling them before; perhaps he had missed them the last time he touched Jehan. But as he ran a thumb cautiously over one, he could feel the brutality of whatever had been done to them.

Jehan was quick to grab his hands, and strong to drag them away from their skin, pinning them over Montparnasse’s head. Their hair fell into their face, and their lip was drawn back over bared teeth. The waves of anger and lust and fear that washed over their face quickly gave way to hot tears staining their cheeks. 

“Jehan,” Montparnasse managed, trying to push back on them, suddenly terrified of touching them roughly. They didn’t move for a moment but began to shake. 

“Jehan,” he repeated, more gently, and it seemed to break the cord holding Jehan taut. They deflated, letting go of Montparnasse’s hands, and slipping off of him, pooling into a ball on the mattress next to him. The sobs erupting from them were violent, and their body trembled like a leaf in a hurricane, their muscles tensed. They lay on their side with their back to Montparnasse, and for the first time he could see clearly the destruction on their back. Two vertical scars each an inch thick ran down their shoulder blades. The scars were healed over, but they still puckered out, looking angry and discoloured against the rest of Jehan’s skin. 

Montparnasse was frozen, staring. Jehan had said they had more scars on their back. Montparnasse had expected more of the kind that ran over their arms, mostly thin, absorbed into tattoo, though still horrible in their own right. These, though, were mutilations. 

“Jehan,” he said again, the name coming out strangled. He put out his hand to touch their arm, but he thought better of it. Jehan, though, feeling the pause, blindly reached for him, grasping his hand, and pulling him down towards them again. 

Montparnasse lay beside them, one arm draped over their torso, his hand clutched in theirs. His legs curled, mimicking the the way Jehan’s were folded up. They were just as close together as they had been moments before, but the air had changed inside the little tent. Despite the contact of skin, the element between them was no long electricity, but water. Montparnasse ran his thumb over Jehan’s, their grip eventually loosening a little from the white-knuckled intensity. 

The intimacy was almost overwhelming. Montparnasse held them as they cried, even as their sobs eventually reduced to sniffles and little shudders. He couldn’t remember doing anything like this before. He could count on one hand the number of times he had spent the entire night with someone, and even then he had never experienced this level of raw closeness and vulnerability. He had sat beside Éponine on bad days, whispering promises of the future to her while helping her patch a split lip, or let her rage until she was exhausted enough to lean against his shoulder to share a cigarette. 

Eventually, Jehan’s breath evened out, and Montparnasse wondered if they had fallen asleep until he heard their voice, tiny and muffled by the mattress. 

“He wanted to make me an angel.”

Montparnasse’s heart jumped, and he squeezed Jehan’s hand a little to show he had heard them, uncertain of whether he should speak. 

“He’s an artist,” Jehan said, a little stronger. “The man from last night. His name is Mathis. I lived with him for two years. Before.” 

“Before the circus,” Montparnasse said. “He’s what you were running from.” 

They nodded, jerkily. “I...I was his muse. I lived in his house and he paid for my food and my clothes and then he would paint me or sculpt me or...or…” They shuddered again, taking a shaking breath to steady themself again. “He was...possessive. I know that. I knew it then too but I convinced myself he was just passionate. We weren’t in a romantic relationship, at least not on paper. But he would take me to openings and parties and show me off to let everyone know I was his. He said he liked me because I expressed things so much. He would do anything to make me laugh if he wanted to paint me happy. He would yell at me and hit me if he wanted me to look afraid or angry. I told myself it wasn’t abuse because I consented to it by being his muse. He would fuck me if he felt like it would give him a better model. If he wanted something...debauched. It wasn’t...I let him, but it was always on his terms. He owned my body. He paid for it and maintained it and so I owed him any use he could think of.”

Montparnasse was frozen in horror. He realized he had been squeezing Jehan’s hand again, and he moved to pull away. The gripped his arm, bringing it against their chest, holding it like a stuffed animal to help them sleep. He could feel their heart banging against the heel of his hand.

“Eventually he went through a dark phase. Lots of scenes where he would make me look dead, or tie me up, or cover me in fake blood. I remember it stained the studio floor and I could never clean it out. He started cutting me, coercing me into letting him mark up my arms and legs. I didn’t care much at that point, because I was already making myself bleed. I wasn’t sure if I was a real person anymore and I had to keep proving to myself there was something under my skin. I started sleeping with anyone who would let me stay over. I didn’t want to go home anymore. Mathis would tell me I was lucky he let other people fuck me, that he could always change his mind and drag me out of someone’s bed by my hair. I was afraid he would kill me. He said so many times that I would make a beautiful corpse.”

Their voice cut off in a choked sound, and Montparnasse could do nothing but hold them and wait.

“I stayed so long. I did everything he asked. The last straw - he told me what he was going to do to me, and I didn’t even think to tell him no. I don’t think he would have listened at that point either. He made a pair of angel wings. He gave me something to knock me out so he could perform surgery. He cut into my back, and he sewed one of the wings into my skin. He left the other one lying beside me. He wanted me to be a fallen angel with one wing torn out. I woke up covered in my own blood, in agony. He kept knocking me out so he could finish his work. He said I would ruin it if I moved. I prayed I would just die there, but the wounds weren’t bad enough. Eventually he took out the wing and sewed me back up and put me to bed, tending to me like he cared if I would recover.” 

Despite the monstrous words spilling out of them, Jehan’s voice had fallen dull and robotic. Montparnasse felt sick.

“I left after that, as soon as I was able to. I didn’t have any money because he never paid me. He just kept me, and I relied on him for everything. I went to bars and clubs just to find someone who would take me home. And then I met Grantaire and I was drunk and I told him too much and so he took me home but to get me on my feet, not on my back. He helped me find a job, and I subletted his apartment when he went on tour for a season. I started training. Mathis wanted me to be a fallen angel, but I wanted to fly. So I did. I thought I had gotten away. That was stupid, wasn’t it? He owns too much of me to let me go forever.”

“No,” Montparnasse managed, rasping against the tightness in his throat. “No, Jehan, he doesn’t own you. What he did to you-” Montparnasse felt his voice break but he didn’t care anymore. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.” 

Jehan was silent a moment. “Maybe you should have,” they said finally. 

“He won’t touch you again,” Montparnasse murmured, the iron in him strengthening the promise. 

“Thank you.” Jehan’s voice was nearly a whisper. 

They lay together for a time, close together. Montparnasse could control his breathing, but not his mind. Waves of anger kept pouring over him every time Mathis’s face appeared in his mind’s eye. A significant part of him wanted to slip away from Jehan, retrieve the weapon from the small safe in his bag, and head into the night to hunt down the monster that stalked Jehan’s waking nightmares. But Jehan kept Montparnasse’s arm firmly in their grasp, long after it had gone numb. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” they said eventually, their voice heartbreakingly small.

“Yes,” Montparnasse whispered back simply. He kissed the back of their head, trying to communicate promises through the gesture. Jehan’s body softened further in his arms. He waited before he was sure they were sleeping before closing his own eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm. sorry. 
> 
> I have a problem and that problem is making the worst things in the world happen to the characters I love most.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: child abuse, sex work, underage sex work, forced sex work, gangs, and knives. Sorry.

Montparnasse woke the next morning to movement beside him. Jehan had sat up and was pulling on a pair of leggings. They knelt with their back to Montparnasse, and he studied the scars on their back until they pulled a tank top over their head. They turned on their knees, and froze when they saw him watching.

“Oh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m a light sleeper,” Montparnasse said, and cleared his throat of its morning graininess.

“I need to go rehearse,” Jehan murmured. “You can stay. Sleep.”

Grogginess still encapsulated Montparnasse, loosening the controls on his inhibitions. “Must you?” he said, turning his mouth into a half-smile and the relief he felt when Jehan returned it was immense.

They chewed on their lip a moment, their eyes running over his face and bare chest, down to where the patchwork quilt fell over his hips.

“Well,” they said, and eased back down next to him, brushing their hand behind his head as they drew themself to him.

The kiss they fell into was slow and easy, their lips moving softly against each others. Unlike previous kisses laced with desperation and lust, there was a sense of synchronicity between them, as though muscle memory had taken over. Kissing Jehan felt familiar, like coming home. Neither made any attempt to take it further - the gentleness between them seemed to settle into comfort.

Eventually, Jehan pulled back. Their lips were darker, and a little puffy, and their cheeks were flushed.

“I really do need to go to rehearsal,” they said softly, running their fingertips over Montparnasse’s collarbone. “We can meet up again tonight, though?”

“Hmm, I think I can accept that compromise.”

Montparnasse pulled on his shirt. He was too awake now to consider going back to sleep, and so he followed Jehan out of the tent. He pulled them in gently for one last embrace, his hand cradling the back of their head. There was more force behind the kiss, from both of them, as though they were both eager to make the feeling last just a little longer.

“Later,” Jehan promised as they turned towards the big top.

Montparnasse watched them, finally turning back towards his own trailer once they were out of sight. A few yards away, Éponine leaned against the back of a concession stand. Montparnasse froze.

“What-” he started, trying to read the neutral expression on Éponine’s face.

“Sooo, one night stand? Or torrid romance you’ve been keeping secret from me?” she said casually, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Too soon to say,” Montparnasse said, recovering quickly as he walked towards her. “Were you trying to find out for yourself? I think that’s voyeurism, ‘Ponine.”

She scowled, the expression tinged with long-time affection she could never quite hide. “Marius came by my trailer looking for you. He said you never came to bed last night. Seemed really worried. You might wanna let him know you were just inspired by the aerials so you were out practicing your flexibility.”

“Ha ha you’re _hilarious_. Stop, please, you’re too much.”

Éponine punched him in the shoulder, just hard enough to make him flinch. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, smirking. “Jehan, though, huh? They’re pretty hot.” They started walking towards the midway grounds. Montparnasse sent a quick glance her way. It had only been a few days but her eye looked significantly better.

“They’re more than just hot,” he said, and Éponine shot him a look. “If I was just after hot, I would masturbate in front of a mirror,” he added.

“I’m gonna super pretend I didn’t hear that, and also I’m not talking to you anymore,” she said.

She didn’t push it further.

 

Montparnasse fell into a routine of falling into bed with Jehan. They did not bring up Mathis again - they left most of their conversation on surface level things. They told Montparnasse about their favourite books and music. Montparnasse discovered there was poetry he actually enjoyed when it came out of Jehan in gasps as they came apart in his lap or under his hands. Montparnasse was cautious with what he said. He kept any hint of possessive language out of his speech, afraid they would crumble under his words if he misspoke. So they didn’t talk much, using their mouths for other things, and let things grow in the silence. Montparnasse spent the rest of their stay in Lyon sleeping in Jehan’s tent, which the rest of the circus members seemed to quickly notice. If there were any comments about it, though, they never made their way back to him.

 

Their next show was in Nice, their most southern stop before they would turn around and work their way back up to Paris for the off-season. Montparnasse again rode with Jehan once the circus had been packed up. They shared no secrets this time. Instead, Jehan turned on the radio, singing along to nearly every song. Their voice simple and sweet, able to carry a tune in a way that made even the most obnoxious, upbeat pop songs sound a little softer, a little more ethereal. Montparnasse found he didn’t mind the music he normally despised. Jehan had that effect on him in many ways, it seemed.

 

The set up was smooth, in a small grassy park so close to the sea that Montparnasse could taste the salt on Jehan’s lips as they lay together that night. They had just fallen into a peaceful rest when Montparnasse’s phone lit up beside him.  


_meet me on the pier as soon as you won’t be missed_  


It was an unknown number, but Montparnasse tensed with recognition. Carefully, he extracted himself from the tangle of blankets and limbs, grateful that Jehan was a deep sleeper. The grounds were not as secluded as they had been in Lyon, but the seaside road had grown quiet once darkness had fallen. Montparnasse looked towards the water, spotting the pier jutting out over the waves.

As he neared, he could just make out the figure of a person against one of the posts, invisible had he not been looking for them. He lit a cigarette, letting the smoke announce his presence, but Claquesous didn’t turn until Montparnasse was next to him.

“Evening,” he said, voice low and slightly muffled as he looked sideways at Montparnasse through the eye holes of his stark white bauta mask.

“What are you doing here?” Montparnasse said cooly, trying not to show the apprehension Claquesous’s appearance brought him.

“I have news,” the masked man replied. “Thénardier seems to have caught on to you. Something to do with you taking off with his daughter at the same time his allies were getting picked off.”

Montparnasse scoffed. “As if she needed my influence to convince her to leave.”

“He’s got people looking for you both. You picked a strange place to hide out.”

“You think Thénardier’s goons are spending their nights off at the circus?”

Claquesous’s eyes didn’t change, but Montparnasse could hear the smirk in his voice. “Charming cultured men of the theatre,” he said, and then dropped his voice. “The was a problem. We had to move into position early.”

Montparnasse felt something heavy and uncomfortable fall into his stomach. Claquesous didn’t admit to problems lightly.

“He escalated once Éponine got out. Tried to whore out Azelma.”

Montparnasse’s breath came out in a hiss, almost breathless as though he’d been punched in the gut. “She’s _15_.”

“That didn’t stop him with Éponine. Or with you.”

Montparnasse felt cold. Memories of his early days running with Thénardier hadn’t been entirely repressed. Straight out of his foster father’s house, the freedom of Thénardier’s world had seemed like a luxury. Even more so once Thénardier showed him how much of his own money he could have if he let Thénardier send potential business partners to his room in the motel, to ‘soften them up’, as the gang leader put it. It had quickly become a nightmare, especially when Thénardier insisted on his significant cut from every encounter. It was only when Montparnasse had honed his skills in ‘diplomacy’ was he able to get out from underneath the endless parade of ‘investors’ who would drop their money along with their trousers. After all, Montparnasse’s position was soon filled by Thénardier’s eldest daughter.

Azelma, though…

“That fucker,” he snarled, thinking of the girl, softer than Éponine from years of being hidden from view by her sister’s grim determination.

“Finistere got word to us fast. He’s still in deep, real close to Thénardier. Glorieux managed to get to her first. Picked her and Gavroche up, took them somewhere safe. Gav...had some damage. Broken arm, bruises. But at least he’s talking. Azelma hadn’t spoken to anyone when I left.”

“Where are they?” Montparnasse’s throat was tight.

“Safe. Don’t fuck this up by going to them yet. We think Thénardier was hanging Azelma out as bait to draw you and Éponine back.”

“So what the fuck am I supposed to do about from here?” Montparnasse demanded, his anger rising even more in contrast to Claquesous’s cool demeanor under his even colder mask.

“Feed the elephants your peanuts and keep your head down. I’ll tell you when we make the next move. This is just a courtesy call.”

“Bullshit. Let me do something.”

“You stayed under the radar for Patron-Minette for two years. You can’t wait another week?”

“It’s not the same.” Montparnasse had a strong desire to punch something. He’d spent an entire year playing Thénardier’s bitch after Patron-Minette secretly recruited him to work against his boss, and another two laying low, out of sight, once he had purposefully botched his last job for the man. It had been nothing but business on the line then. It had become more personal as soon as Éponine had shown up at his door with her face bruised and broken by her father’s hand.

“We have to assume he knows about your connection to Patron-Minette. He’ll expect you to head to Paris or back to Montfermeil. So do the opposite. That’s how you can help.”

Montparnasse scowled, knowing Claquesous was right.

“This had better be over soon.”

“It will be.”

Still frustrated and sensing Claquesous was done, Montparnasse turned and stalked off back along the pier. He could feel rather than hear Claquesous just a few paces behind. The road that separated the waterfront from the park where the circus had been set up was still relatively quiet, but Montparnasse stayed out of the light of the street lamps out of habit.

The figure crossing the street had no such instinct.

Montparnasse froze as he recognized with fury the now familiar lanky shape of Mathis stepping onto the far curb. He had a backpack on, and he looked back over his shoulder, scanning the sidewalks. His sweep missed Montparnasse and Claquesous completely, and he knelt on the grass to open his pack, pawing through the contents

“Who is he?” Claquesous said, low.

Montparnasse’s entire body was tensed, his fists and jaw clenched so tightly he needed to force himself to release them.

“A problem. He’s gotten two warnings already.”

“Unfortunate for him, then,” Claquesous breathed, and began to move.

Years of working even on the outskirts of Patron-Minette had driven their laws into Montparnasse’s head. Nobody got a third chance. Maybe, though, he hadn’t expected Claquesous to act so quickly at Montparnasse’s word, but he found himself jolting to life only when the masked man had reached the other side of the road.

Mathis clearly lacked experience in being jumped, and he startled violently, his yelp coming too late as Claquesous pressed a hard gloved hand over his mouth. Claquesous’s other hand stayed low, almost invisible to even Montparnasse, but he knew Mathis was feeling the sharp sting of a favourite blade at the small of his back. Though his mouth was hidden by the mask, Montparnasse caught the hiss of Claquesous whispering something into Mathis’s ear that made the man go still, and Montparnasse took the opportunity to move into his line of sight. The raw terror Montparnasse saw rise in Mathis’s eyes was just enough to make him smile, an ugly curl of his pretty lip.

“Hello, Mathis,” he said in a voice like poisoned honey. “I suppose we need one more talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have any more excuses, actually. 
> 
> yell at me here or on tumblr at feyland


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw for threats, domestic abuse, death, and scars

There was naked fear in Mathis’s face, and it brought a satisfied sneer to Montparnasse’s. He approached slowly, a predator advancing on vulnerable play. 

“Awful stupid to come back again,” he said, keeping his voice low despite the urge to snarl. “You were lucky before. I didn’t know a thing about you yet. You could have turned tail and run. Pity you couldn’t stay away.”

Mathis flinched, hard, and Montparnasse realized why. The smooth handle of his switchblade had made its way into Montparnasse’s palm, and the flash of the metal had triggered the reaction in Mathis.

“Don’t.” Claquesous’s voice was as sharp as the blade. Montparnasse gritted his teeth, and his grip tightened on the knife, turing his knuckles white. Claquesous didn’t need to say anything else. Montparnasse knew what the warning meant: a messy crime scene was easier to investigate. Slowly, he lowered his hand, but didn’t put the knife away. Instead, he turned his attention to Mathis’s backpack. Crouching, he ripped it away from Mathis, who didn’t so much as make a grab for it. Fear and Claquesous’s hand kept him frozen in place. Montparnasse carefully pulled the edges back and peered inside. The pack was full of what Montparnasse couldn’t help but think of as the calling cards of the world’s worst criminal: a length of new rope, a set of handcuffs, a ball of black fabric, a handful of lighters, and bottle of what Montparnasse suspected was gasoline. The narrative was obvious and sickening, and Montparnasse shook off another tremor of fury. 

“We’re getting rid of this garbage,” he said to Claquesous, knowing his meaning would be understood. 

A muffled protest came from beneath Claquesous’s hand, and they both looked to Mathis.

“Careful now,” Claquesous warned, and moved the weight of his palm off of Mathis’s mouth. 

“Please!” he choked. “This was a mistake.” 

Montparnasse barked a laugh, louder than he intended. Chaotic energy swirled in him, heating his blood to the point he was seeing red. 

“Just let me go and I swear, you’ll never see me again! I’ll leave them alone.”

“That’s for goddamn sure,” Montparnasse hissed. He leaned towards Mathis who tried to pull back before remembering the knife at his back. “If I had it my way, I would copy every one of their scars onto you. I’d lock you up and every day I would re-open those scars. If I had it my way, I would make you live out every single day of their suffering, tenfold, and when it was done I would slit your useless throat and paint my own masterpiece with your blood.” 

Montparnasse had meant to send daggers of fear into Mathis if he couldn’t use his knife, and the words seemed to have found their mark. The man was shaking hard, his mouth open like a dying fish as his breath tried to support his heart rate. But the poisonous words felt authentic in Montparnasse’s mouth, and he couldn’t help but feel that if he had the chance, he truly would be happy to carry out the threats. 

“Fortunately for you, it isn’t up to Montparnasse,” Claquesous said. “In fact, he was just leaving.” 

Montparnasse stood quickly and glared at Claquesous. “Like hell I am.” He could read nothing behind Claquesous’s mask, though he knew there was fury clearly written on his own face. 

“I will deal with this,” Claquesous said cooly. 

They stared at each other a moment. Montparnasse wanted nothing more than to throw a punch - at Mathis, at Claquesous, it didn’t matter. Jehan’s scars were clear in his mind. He wanted to break something. 

He took a step back. Claquesous gave him the faintest nod.

“You’re fucking lucky,” Montparnasse spat at Mathis. Claquesous had placed his hand back other the mouth, and leaned down to hiss something into his ear. Mathis’s eyes were wild, and a muffled whimper escaped Claquesous’s fingers. Montparnasse paused a second longer, drinking in the terror. Then he turned and walked away.

 

He was nearly running by the time he returned to the circus grounds, panicked by the thought that Mathis might have already been there. The night was still and quiet, though, and he paused to catch his breath outside of Jehan’s tent. Inside, they remained dead to the world, their chest rising and falling comfortingly. Montparnasse carefully crawled in next to them. He considered taking off his shoes, but decided he might need to move in a hurry. He lay down on top of the blankets, letting out a shuddering breath, trying to rid himself of the anxiety, anger, and frustration pulsing in his chest. Beside him, Jehan stirred. 

“Are you okay?” their voice came, softly and coated with sleep. Their eyes were still closed, and Montparnasse wasn’t sure they would be awake long enough to hear an answer. He tried to even his breathing.

“Bad dream,” he croaked. “I’m fine.”

Jehan hummed in sympathy, and reached towards him, putting one arm across his chest, and letting their other hand rest against his shoulder. They said nothing else, and Montparnasse soon felt them slip back under. He turned his head towards the entrance of the tent. He wouldn’t sleep, he decided. If anything happened, he would be ready for it. 

 

Mid-morning light was sifting through the tent’s draped fabric, and Montparnasse was losing his battle against sleep when Jehan’s alarm went off. They were curled up to him as close as they could get from the other side of the blankets. They murmured something into his neck, before blindly reaching out to shut off the noise. 

“How did you sleep?” Montparnasse asked quietly, watching them carefully. 

They blinked at him sleepily and smiled. “Mm. Good. Set-up day always knocks me out cold.”

“Good.” He watched them stretch. The scars beneath their tattoos were mostly invisible, unless someone was looking for them. A flare of something burned through Montparnasse, strong and clear. 

He hadn’t heard anything from Claquesous. Close to 4am, he had sent a single question mark. Claquesous had read it, at 4:06. 

Jehan picked up their phone with one hand, running the other one through their long hair in an attempt to comb it out. 

Their hand stopped. They dropped the phone

The noise that came out of them was barely above a squeak, but the way it choked off at the end had Montparnasse instantly on edge. Jehan’s face had gone pale, their eyes wide. Something had sucked all the air out of the little tent.

“What is it?” Panic was evident in Montparnasse’s voice, but he didn’t care. Jehan was shaking. They gestured towards the phone. Montparnasse snatched it up, quickly skimming what had set Jehan off. 

The number was unknown but the sender was evident. 

_...think you can run off on me… _

_...whoring yourself off… _

_...open your back up again... _

_ …your stupid fucking boyfriend next… _

_...burn it all down… _

_...I’ll always find you… _

Montparnasse felt like he was going to be sick. The timestamps came from shortly before midnight - right before he and Claquesous had come across Mathis. He had almost been too late. A few moments longer and Mathis could have had his hands on Jehan, without anyone around to stop him. 

“ _ No _ ,” he said, strained. He wanted to tell them that he would take care of Mathis. He wanted to promise them they were safe. He wanted to say so many things but he couldn’t get them past his lips. He was shaking now too, so hard that he barely registered the phone buzzing in his pocket. He ignored it. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Jehan. He wanted desperately to reach out and hold them, protect them. He was terrified, though, that they might shatter under his touch. 

They were breathing hard, their face oddly dry of tears, but Montparnasse could read tension in every part of their body. When they moved, it was choppy and forced. They started pulling at the tent fabric, collapsing the structure. 

“Jehan-” Montparnasse said, strangled.

“I have to go,” they choked, the desperation cracking their voice. “I need to get away I need- He’s following me.”

They threw open the back door of their van, tearing one of the tapestries attached to it. They stuffed the fabric in and reached back for more. 

Montparnasse stood frozen, the words he had read singed into his brain. His phone buzzed again. He barely registered the feeling of it in his hand when he pulled it out - his extremities felt numb. He blinked at the screen, trying to marry the things Mathis had written with what was in front of him.

Jehan’s panic was building, great breaths, heaving and desperate, rocked their small frame, as though some sort of being was fighting its way out from inside them. 

“He’s dead.”

Jehan flinched violently. They were mid-motion, holding a woven blanket, their hands the only thing still moving as they worried the edge. 

“What?” Their voice was sharp, bruised. 

“He’s dead,” Montparnasse repeated. “Look.” He held out his phone. 

Jehan let the blanket go and reached out slowly with shaking hands. Montparnasse was silent, watching them try to connect the words news headline: “ _ Tourist dead in accidental fall _ .” The article was brief. A young man had ventured too far out along the rocky coastal cliffs and had fallen to his death in the dark. He’d been found by a jogger just after dawn, and identified almost immediately. No foul play suspected. A call for fences to be erected by popular lookout spots. 

Jehan stayed staring at the phone a long time. Finally, their voice came through, barely above a whisper but stronger than Montparnasse expected.

“Who sent you this?” 

The string of numbers from Claquesous’s phone didn’t bear his name

“A friend,” Montparnasse breathed. 

“What did you tell them? About me?”

“Nothing,” Montparnasse said desperately. “I- I let him know Mathis-” (Jehan flinched again) “was a problem. He...didn’t ask questions.”

“Were you there?” 

“No.”

Silence. Then:

“Okay.”  
They stood, staring at each other. Montparnasse desperately wanted to drop his eyes. He couldn’t read the intensity swirling behind Jehan’s eyes. He couldn’t read anything about them and it unsettled him.

“I need-” Jehan said, at last. “I need to speak to Combeferre.” Montparnasse nodded, not certain what he was agreeing to, and stood silently as they stepped out from the mangled tent. They moved slowly among the trailers towards Combeferre’s office. Montparnasse watched them closely, waiting for them to stumble, or crumple, or for the earth to open up and swallow them whole. It didn’t. 

He waited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uuuuh sorry it took me 300 years to update - busy life stuff and whatever. Also delayed by Montsous week so if u want more of those two, I have a short fic series up.
> 
> I hope that's satisfying enough. Maybe just picture Claquesous imitating Scar during Mufasa's death scene :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw - mention of clowns, mentions of abuse, minor???character death

Jehan was gone by noon. 

They had emerged from Combeferre’s office, red-eyed and silent. Montparnasse had helped them roll up the tent fabric and put it into the back of their van. They paused before they opened the driver’s side door, looking at Montparnasse as though they were taking a picture of a moment they feared to lose. 

“Thank you,” they said quietly, and pulled the door open. “And I’m sorry.” 

Montparnasse just nodded at them. His throat and lungs felt tight. He watched Jehan start the engine, and carefully pull out of the circus grounds, leaving behind a patch of flattened grass. 

Montparnasse wasn’t set to work until the evening show, and so he dragged heavy feet back towards the trailer he had barely seen since he had started spending his nights with Jehan. Enjolras was inside, reading a book in his bunk. His forehead creased when he saw Montparnasse, but just pursed his lips and said nothing. Montparnasse slipped out of his shoes and collapsed onto his neglected bed, turning to face the trailer wall. He hadn’t been sure whether he would be able to sleep, but the next thing he knew, the late afternoon sun had found its way in a window and across his pillow. He groaned internally, his head cloudy and slow as he sat up. 

Struggling into his branded staff shirt, Montparnasse made sure to put on his sunglasses before dragging himself out of the trailer. It was nearly 5 o’clock, and the circus grounds were already full of people, playing games and visiting booths, the smell of popcorn mingling with peals of laughter. He waded through the crowd, heading towards the entrance of the bigtop where he was meant to keep people out until later, but a quick hand got to him first. 

É ponine was leaning so far out of a game booth that Montparnasse could have ruined her balance if he took another step. 

“Uh, back in five,” she said to the kid waiting with a handful of euros, and scrambled without grace over the counter, pulling Montparnasse behind the booth. 

“Hey what the fuck?” she said before he had the opportunity to brush her off. “I heard Jehan left? What happened.”

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?” he replied, irritably. 

“Literally everything around you turns to drama at some point. Did you break up or something?”

“ Éponine, we weren’t together. We were just-”

“Fucking.”

“Sure. Whatever. They got some news. Personal emergency. They didn’t give me details. I don’t even know where they’re going.”

The bit of truth at the end made it easier to get out. He prided himself on being an excellent liar, but he was exhausted and raw and Éponine had always been just a little too good at calling his bluff. He was glad for the sunglasses. 

“Lame,” she huffed. “I can’t believe you have nothing interesting to spill. That’s 90% of the reason I’m friends with you.” 

Montparnasse smiled in spite of himself. “Sorry to disappoint. Are you really so desperate for gossip? No torrid love affairs going on with you?”

He didn’t miss the way she blushed. “Nah,” she said, dismissively.

“Oh man if that isn’t some bullshit,” he said, his smile widening. “Who is it?”

“Shut up,” Éponine said, half-heartedly. The colour in her cheeks darkened. 

“Are you going to make me go through a list of everyone who works here? Or are you going to tell me who she is?”

Éponine’s surprised look was enough to confirm Montparnasse’s hunch. “Alright, so it is a woman which means it’s either Cosette or Musichetta, so I’m going to take a shot in the dark and guess you’ve got it bad for horse-girl. Do I win a prize?”

Éponine stared at him, before snapping her mouth closed. “You better not say a goddamn thing,” she warned fiercely. “And here’s your prize.” She presented him with two middle fingers, then turned and retreated back into the booth. 

Montparnasse laughed, moving around to the front where she was snatching money out of the kid’s hand as she glared daggers at Montparnasse. He felt a little lighter. At least Éponine was safe here, comfortable enough to start breaking down a hard wall for a pretty acrobat. 

He tried not to think of the way one had broken him too. 

 

Grantaire performed on the silks that night. An altered version of the show moved seamlessly, so much so that Montparnasse caught his breath for a moment when he first saw the outline of a figure hanging in the air. The music was different, though, and Grantaire’s routine matched the personality of his clown character. Through his movement, the clown showed a struggle to climb, the fear of being so high and unsupported. The silks wrapped around his legs and arms, seemingly pulling him in different directions while he struggled to control them. Whereas Jehan had moved through the silks like they were breaking waves, adapting to their touch, Grantaire played out a struggle. His control was still excellent - he was clearly an incredible aerialist in his own right. But as he leaned forward, tumbling head over heels to be caught upside down by his ankles, Montparnasse felt a keep pain in his chest that yearned for the joyful celebration of movement Jehan brought with them. 

 

Grantaire cornered him later. Montparnasse realized he had been expecting it. 

“Do you know why Jehan left?” The question was blunt, carefully free of accusation, as Grantaire joined Montparnasse for a cigarette in the quiet grounds that evening. 

“Yes. Sort of. Do you?” Montparnasse said.

“I think so. I would like to be wrong.”

Montparnasse looked at him sideways. “Do you know about their...ex?” It felt wrong to label a monster with such a simple word. He could feel the air tense along with Grantaire.

“Mathis.” Grantaire said the name like an insult, and a creature inside Montparnasse hummed in approval.

“He was following them. They woke up this morning to a bunch of texts. Threats.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire hissed.

“They were going to leave then. To hide, I guess. Because he could just follow the circus and always be able to find them. But I got some news.” Montparnasse pulled out his phone, pulling up the same article he had shown Jehan this morning, and passed it over. Grantaire scanned it, let out his held breath, and read it again. 

“They left anyway,” Montparnasse supplied. “I don’t know where or exactly why, but I think- being here was too much right now.”

Grantaire stared at him. “He just...fell?”

Montparnasse kept his face blank. “I heard he had some help” 

Grantaire handed him back his phone. They were both silent a long while. Finally, Grantaire dropped his cigarette butt, crushing it with his heel harder than was probably necessary. 

“Good,” he said at last, and turned to walk off towards his bus. 

 

The tour continued. The circus made its way from Nice to Cannes to Toulon to Marseille. The stops were brief, only four or five performances before they were packing up again. Montparnasse was used to the routine of it, every day feeling just a little more mechanical. The evening shows hadn’t failed to set his heart pounding night after night, but the sad story Grantaire wove with the silks also always brought a pang of regret to Montparnasse’s throat. 

They were all sitting in the backstage tent after the first night in Avignon when Montparnasse’s phone buzzed. His pulse jumped before he could push the intrusive thoughts down. Jehan had been gone for 3 weeks - they hadn’t contacted him at all. As far as he knew, they hadn’t spoken to anymore. 

His heart rate slowed until he saw the text.

_ t dead - paris safe _

He stared at the words, silently cursing Claquesous for continually dropping this kind of shit on him via text. He looked up, towards Éponine, whose entire attention was on Cosette, the other girl nearly sitting in Éponine’s lap. Éponine had told him, red-faced and husky, about how Cosette had kissed her after a show one night. Cosette had smelled like sawdust and oats, apparently, and the feathers on her costume had made Éponine sneeze. It had been too much for Montparnasse - he had mimicked retching into the grass. 

Part of him wanted to retch now too. The paranoia and fear that had followed him since the day Thenardier had become his shadow were gone, replaced by a void of unknown. He assumed Thenardier’s gang would have scattered without their figurehead - where to, Montparnasse didn’t know. 

He texted back: _ The kids? _

The response was almost immediate:  _ fine. _

He looked back at Éponine. Her face was stretched into a smile as she laughed at something Bahorel said to her right. Avignon was their last stop on the tour. In a few days, they would be heading back to Paris anyway. He would wait, Montparnasse decided, to tell her until the night before they left.

Let her collect the last few days of magic before facing the ashes her father had left behind.

 

They spent the ride back to Paris in the back of Grantaire’s bus, murmuring quietly as tension grew with every kilometre. Éponine had cried the night before when Montparnasse had shared what little he knew of her father’s fate.

 

“I’m not crying for him,” he had insisted, angrily wiping tears away. “It’s just. All this time and now it’s just fixed? It could have been over if someone had just...done it earlier.”

“I know.” Montparnasse had pulled her close. His own relief and aged bitterness had welling up too. 

“He’s not going to hurt us anymore,” she had mumbled wetly. “He can’t.”

 

Thenardier’s ghost still hung over the city like a shadow, though, as they reached the outskirts, and Montparnasse and Éponine both fell silent. The sky was dark, swollen with the promise of rain - as though the homecoming needed to be any more ominous. The caravan reached a long storage building, and Grantaire followed the trucks into the parking lot. It was mostly abandoned, though Montparnasse watched Feuilly jump out of one truck to punch in a code that sent a handful of garage doors sliding open. Grantaire crept his bus carefully up along several parking spaces and killed the engine, close to the only other car in the lot. Montparnasse barely gave it a second thought until he and Éponine stepped off the bus, and the back door flung open. A bullet of overlong hair and dirty sneakers hit them before they could process it, and Gavroche seemed to have knocked the wind out of Éponine with the amount of force behind his hug. Azelma took more time getting out of the car, but the expression of relief and excitement on her face matched her brother’s. Gavroche’s hailstorm of questions started, pausing neither to hear the answers nor to greet Montparnasse with more than a half-abandoned hug, as though any more of an embrace would squeeze too much air out of his ceaseless lungs. 

Montparnasse glanced back at the car. Through the open back door, he could see the reflection of Claquesous’s dark glasses. He gave a quick nod before turning back to the kids. Éponine was waving Cosette over to meet her siblings, much to Gavroche’s wicked delight. There would be time to talk business later. For now, he needed a moment with something like family. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ??? im not thrilled with this but its supposed to be something of a transitional chapter? and setup for the last one. almost there, kiddos. Thanks for reading.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end. Cw for alcohol, light gang relations, and mild references to past trauma.

_ They’ve been training at the  _ _ Gymnase Leclerc. Should be there this afternoon. They told me I could tell you.  _

Montparnasse stared at the text. Grantaire’s blunt sentences fell on him like a series of blows, knocking the wind from his lungs. 

It had been nearly two months since he had arrived in Paris, two months since the circus had been packed away into a storage facility. Two months since the company had scattered, making plans for to begin the work for the next year’s show. Montparnasse and  Éponine had both been invited to continue on with a new contract, working next to Combeferre and Feuilly in the planning, booking, and financing of the future. Éponine had gracefully ducked out, citing time needed with her family - for now at least. Montparnasse followed her lead, and was grateful that no one pressed him for his reasons. 

The first meeting with the rest of Patron-Minette was tense and formal. Montparnasse was familiar with more names than faces, and he watched the half-strangers watch him with the distrust he knew came from his years under Thenardier’s thumb. It was only when Babet had stepped in to share further details of Montparnasse’s work behind the scenes that some of the others began to relax. Claquesous watched silently from a corner, his body language giving away as much as his hidden face, but he raised his glass as the gang finally toasted to a successful job too many years in the making. Montparnasse drank deeply that night, determined to drown out the noise and discomfort circulating in his head. 

 

He hadn’t heard from Jehan since the morning they left. The single text he had sent them went undelivered, and when he called the number to confirm his hunch, he had found the line no longer in service. 

He had asked Grantaire only once. 

Montparnasse had let Éponine drag him to the show’s wrap party. The cast and crew had rented out the entire second floor of a cozy cafe-bar near the Place Saint-Michel to celebrate the close of a successful show. Drinks flowed generously, and music played, and Jehan’s absence had hit Montparnasse like a train. He caught Grantaire’s eye from across the room, and slowly made his way over. 

“Have you heard from them?” Montparnasse asked, not bothering to hide any of the honest concern lacing his words. 

Grantaire regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Yes,” he said, finally. “A little. They want to be alone for a while, I think.”

Montparnasse nodded, ducking his head as a pang of something raced outward from his chest.

“I don’t...want to intrude on them,” he said haltingly. “But- could you let them know that I would like to see them, eventually? If they ever wanted to. They could contact me. But they don’t need to, if they never want to. They never need to. I just-”

“I’ll tell them,” Grantaire said, watching Montparnasse carefully. “I can’t speak for them. But I’ll tell them.” 

The swell of gratitude was intense in Montparnasse, and he turned away quickly with a murmured thanks. 

At some point, someone had started a game of presenting every member of the company with an award marking their most memorable moment of the tour. Marius was presented a lucky horseshoe tied with a ribbon in honour of the time Cosette had offered to give him riding lessons, but Catherine hadn’t been as eager. The horse had taken off running, with a terrified Marius hanging onto the saddle for dear life. 

“For managing to stay on,” Courfeyrac grinned as he presented the award. Marius’s face was a red as it was the day of his ill-fated ride, but he smiled anyway as he accepted his prize. 

Feuilly was given a decorated fan in honour of the time they spent hiding their face behind one in the shadows of Musichetta’s fortune telling tent, stalling for her as she patched up a chagrined Bossuet’s costume which had somehow caught fire. 

Montparnasse himself was presented with a plastic sword. “For throwing out that heckler,” Joly proclaimed. “I could see your face - I thought you were going to stab that guy.” 

Montparnasse couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the man who had very nearly become acquainted with more than just his sharp words. At the time, he hadn’t been sure if throwing out a patron was in compliance with the circus’s customer service policy, but he had found the drunk man’s incescant shouted insults a reasonable way to test it. 

Grantaire’s award was last. 

“Go kneel in front of Enjolras,” Courfeyrac commanded, making several people snicker. Enjolras, for his part, seemed in on the plan, and stepped behind Grantaire as he sank to his knees, facing the room. 

“Grantaire, for services to the circus beyond compare, for stepping up for the sake of the show to incredible, very literal heights, we crown you King of Fools and Silks. Even though monarchies are inherently exploitative and corrupt, and should you attempt to use your title for evil we will happily overthrow you in a bloody coup.”

“I swear to pretend to be a just dictator until I am inevitably executed,” Grantaire said, grinning at the laughter. 

The room burst into applause, more heartfelt than it had been for any other award. Grantaire stood, turned, and pulled a startled Enjolras into a tight hug. When he released the blushing ringleader, Grantaire turned to pick up his drink, holding it out to his friends. 

“To Jehan,” he said simply, his face wistful and a little sad. 

“To Jehan,” came the echo. 

The name didn’t make it out of Montparnasse’s lips, though. As everyone took a sip of their drinks, Montparnasse’s mouth felt dry as bone. 

 

The Gymnase Leclerc was a large space with high ceilings, and a quiet atmosphere. The main room was filled with bars and beams, mats and rings, everything a gymnast or acrobat might need, and many more things Montparnasse couldn’t even begin to identify. Only a few people were using the space, working alone, or murmuring quietly with trainers. It wasn’t hard for Montparnasse to spot who he was looking for. 

Jehan was hanging from a hoop several metres off the ground, a thick mat below them. Montparnasse watched them slowly straighten their body, a single ankle hooked over the edge of the hoop keeping them perfectly vertical as they hung upside down. With a rush of control and strength Montparnasse would never lose his awe over, they flipped upwards, curling into the hoop, before letting their body fold in half, backwards at the waist. They stayed suspended there a moment, and as the hoop spun slowly, Montparnasse found himself in their line of sight.

They seemed to move in slow motion, gripping the base of the hoop and pulling their legs through until they hung by their arms and then let go, landing gracefully on the mat below. Their eyes didn’t leave Montparnasse as they stepped off of it, making their way across the gym floor to him. 

“Hi,” they said, stopping arms-length away from him. Their hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and their eyes looked huge, a whirl of emotions visible through them and across the rest of their face. 

“Hi,” Montparnasse replied. He was very aware of the speed of his heartbeat. “I- Thank you for seeing me.” He winced internally at the formality. 

Jehan smiled, though. “I’m sorry I didn’t contact you sooner.” 

“Don’t be. You had...a lot happening.” Jehan’s gaze was intense, and Montparnasse had to fight the instinct to look away. Their face had been in his mind for weeks; it wasn’t right to avoid it now.

“I owe you an explanation,” Jehan said quietly.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Montparnasse said, pained.  

“Well. I  _ want  _ to give you an explanation, then.” Jehan paused, and Montparnasse realized they were waiting for his consent.

“Okay,” he managed. 

Jehan took a breath in, and let it out slowly. “Well,” they said evenly, “I think I had something of a mental breakdown? Because, shockingly, I had some pretty severe trauma responses connected to Mathis. And there was a lot of fear for a long time, and no matter what I was doing with my life he was always there in the background, following me like a shadow. So when he started showing up in the flesh, it was…” They paused, taking another breath. “It was like my worst nightmares were coming to life. He was going to take everything away from me. Again. And. I had just met you and there was something...I mean, around the time I left him, I spent a lot of time sleeping around because I couldn’t feel anything but I knew he hated me being...used by other people. I was...it was revenge, in a way, but it was so empty. It hurt me more than it hurt him. But then I met you and you didn’t feel like revenge you felt like something, and then suddenly he was there again - right when I started to feel like a real person. Right when-” They waved their hand in the air, their words lost. Their face had flushed, and their speech had picked up speed, manic energy starting to roll off them.

“Hey,” Montparnasse said, reaching out one hand but stopping short of touching them. “It’s okay. You can take your time. Whatever you need.” 

Jehan’s breath was fast, but they managed a few slower, deeper lungfuls of air before they continued. “I wanted to be happy. He came back right on time to tear that away from me. I felt...weak. I gave him something to destroy. That’s what he always did. And then- he died. And I couldn’t even understand that, because he would always be there, I thought. He would always be following me even when I couldn’t see him. There was no way he was gone forever.” Tears were falling down their cheeks, choking at their words, but they pushed through them. “And when I finally convinced myself it was real - when I finally let myself accept it, all I felt was relief and satisfaction. And then I felt like a monster for feeling that way. I still do, sometimes. But, even then...I’m mourning myself. Mourning the kind of person I thought I was, or wanted to be. Not him, though.” They met Montparnasse’s eye, tears glinting on their reddened face. “I will never mourn him,” they said fiercely. “I am glad he’s dead. And if that makes me a monster, so be it. But I’m glad.” 

“He was the monster,” Montparnasse said, more forcefully than he intended. “Not you.” 

Jehan gave him a watery smile. “That’s what my therapist says. I started...she’s the only person I’ve really spoken to in the last month. I needed time. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Montparnasse. “That’s-that takes more bravery than you give yourself credit for.” 

Jehan ducked their head. “I...told her about you. A little. About how I didn’t feel numb when I was with you.”

“Oh,” Montparnasse said, feeling his cheeks heat. 

“She gave me some advice,” Jehan continued. “Because my history of...intimate relationships is kind of...fucked. That I need to learn how move slowly. Build something from the ground up.” They took another deep breath, and Montparnasse felt a twinge of panic. Maybe Jehan had wanted him to come so they could say goodbye. The thought stuck in his head as something else caught in his throat. He took a breath of his own.

“Can we...start over?” Jehan said, their voice fragile as glass, and Montparnasse realized he had turned away his gaze. He looked up at them.

“Start over?”

“Yes. I...if you want, of course. But. I would like to see you. And if you feel the same way, maybe we can start something. Build...whatever it turns out to be. Without anyone from the past contributing to the foundation.” There was a pause, and Jehan’s face grew redder. “I only mean-”

“Would you like to get coffee?” Montparnasse said. “Now, or later today, or whenever you want. But maybe I could take you for coffee? And we can talk, get to know each other. A...first date..”

Jehan sniffed, their eyes wet again. “Yes,” they said thickly. “I would love to go to go on a first date with you, Montparnasse.”

Montparnasse’s face broke into an unrestrained smile, feeling breathless. He had never known the feeling of taking a leap off of a high platform, counting on abilities, training, faith to catch him. The feeling may have been new, but it was unmistakable, the adrenaline awakening in him. Jehan was worth any leap of faith. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this fic made me sign up for aerials so catch me at Cirque du Soleil soon probably.
> 
> Thank you?? for following this. kind of weird journey. I hope it's a satisfying enough conclusion. As much as I love some passionate reunions, I also like therapy for people who need it.
> 
> Anyway. Leave me a comment here or on tumblr @ feyland.tumblr.com  
> xoxo


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